Flying High
by CountessMorgana
Summary: Violet wasn't the first high school student to be a super, and she wasn't the first teenager to have a crush. Before Violet Parr and Tony Rydinger, there was Stratogale and Macroburst. And their story isn't quite as typical as one would expect.
1. On The Mend

**Flying High  
****Chapter 1 – On The Mend  
****By: CountessMorgana  
**----------------------------------------------------------

**The daughter of Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl was not the first high-school student to be a super, and she certainly wasn't the first teenager to have a crush on a boy. Before Violet Parr and Tony Rydinger, before the ban on supers, before the Glory Days ended, there was Stratogale and Macroburst. And their story isn't quite as typical as one would expect.**

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_If I was to hold one hand over my face now  
Would you know me?  
Or would you see the other side of me?  
__And if you were to notice  
There is a plan I've been devising  
To go, to go now, far away from here  
And I, gonna be so brave  
And I, gonna go so far away..._

_We're gonna go there  
We're gonna go there  
We're gonna see the daylight  
And I, gonna fly away now  
And I, gonna go where the path runs high_

**bôa, 'Elephant'**

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**London, England. April 1941**

For as long as Mackie Kintail could remember, the skies of London had always been burning. His house had been dark all day and dark all night to protect themselves against Hitler's aerial attacks, and the sky had still burned. Inside, the still air had been hot and stifling, lit by candles. It smelled of smoke and burning things.

Shops were shuttered, the windows empty. There was little to sell, with importing curtailed: no foodstuffs from Europe, no silks and cottons from the East. These and other luxuries were trading at three times their cost on the black market, and everything was strictly rationed.

He remembered the smoke, the darkness and the burning. And at the makeshift grammar school it had been no better. He had stood on the roof with the other children and in the distance had seen the cities burn. They had cried around him, saying it was the end of the world. He'd cried with them.

And then the bombs quite literally hit home.

It had been dark, so dark. He heard his mother's dying gurgles. His father's last gasps. He himself was trapped in the homemade bomb shelter, unable to escape, the corrugated metal walls pressing in on all sides. He didn't want to die here, alone. Wiltshire with its wide valleys and high Downs seemed a hundred years ago and a million miles away.

Wiltshire. His uncle's house was there. Cullen House, they called it. All the rooms had huge windows and high ceilings; Mackie would never feel trapped in the dark there. And outside the wind would blow his hair and clothes about, mother always fussed about that... He wanted to feel the wind on his face just one more time. Closed his eyes and imagined he could, the wind growing stronger...

Then the rubble began to shift and he heard his uncle, mum's brother Everard, shouting.

_"Kenneth, for God's sake man, what have those German bastards done to you? Mary, ah, poor Mary, don't leave me here, not now! Mackie, Mackie, where are you lad? Please let one of them be alive, if I never do anything else, let him live..."_

Mackie didn't know how long he was down there. It might have been two minutes or twenty years, but Everard finally reached the bomb shelter. And when the battered doors burst open on his uncle's tearstained face, Mackie gladly quit his prison with one thought in his head—

_'I never want to be in a place like that again.'_

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**Eleven Years Later: Riverview Suburb of Megalopolis, USA, August 1952**

Summer in Riverview was as picturesque as ever, and nature enthusiasts and photographers alike loved the area for its forest, its wildlife, and the silvery ribbon of river bisecting the woods from whence the suburb gained its name.

Yet the tall sloping roofs of a series of Neo-Classical buildings interrupted the visual tranquility of the area. A person sat on the pinnacle of a cliff some fifty feet off the ground, taking one last look at this old school before it changed forever come September.

This was Riverview Heights Preparatory School, which the visitor attended. It was the type of high-fee high-quality educational institution preferred by Megalopolis' elite and wealthy, many of whom called the Riverview suburb home.

Fifteen-year-old Mackenzie A. Kintail was descended from two of Britain's more illustrious families, and the ward of one of Megalopolis' most well regarded and expensive psychologists. There was no question of _not_ going to Riverview Heights, as Dr. Everard Howard refused to consider otherwise. (All right, so the good doctor would often complain of the superiority of the British school system and that if circumstances had allowed it, Mackenzie would have been sent to England's finest, but that was a moot point.)

In all honesty, Mackie wouldn't have minded going back to England. Anything to escape the chaos bound to occur once the new school year rolled around.

Riverview Preparatory had existed peacefully since its inception in 1889 as a boys-only school. But beginning in 1905, after the nearby Victoria Heights Girls' Academy burned to the ground, increasing pressure from the community had led to Riverview Prep opening its doors to female students. There was outrage on all sides; would-be co-eds and their families wanted in, alumni and faculty wanted them out, and the then-current roster of male students were divided into yea, nay, or indifference.

In accordance with the sensibilities of the time, an agreement was finally struck where all classes and meals were gender-segregated. This inadvertently led to 'two' Riverview Heights Schools. Aside from dances and the school library, male and female students would otherwise never be able to meet on school grounds without severe reprimand.

But times had changed, and Riverview finally had to change with it... Or so they said. Three years ago the announcement was made to desegregate Riverview, allowing it to truly become a single co-educational institution. The integration process began last year with the lower school – the students from pre-kindergarten to the sixth grade – and had been so successful that the middle and upper school classes were following suit.

It was bad enough, dealing with the usual bullies and annoying studies. Now Mackenzie had to face this on top of everything else?

How could life get any worse?

As if in answer to the unspoken question, there was a distant characteristic buzzing from the sky behind him, and a loud commanding voice sounding in his head.

_'Macroburst! Bomb Voyage is in the Megalopolis Museum of Antiquities with hostages. The translator says he's threatening to blow up the entire complex if the police don't let him leave with the Van Gogh _"Sunflowers"_! Plasmabolt and Psycwave are on their way. Can you make it?'_

Mackie bit back an irritated groan. _'I'm at Riverview Prep. Give me two minutes.'_

_'Done. I've got your location, and Plasmabolt will meet you enroute – Everseer out.'_

Summons received, Mackenzie Kintail got up and stood precariously on the cliff edge. Grinning slightly, he opened his arms and fell forward, letting the winds catch him, letting himself free-fall before his instincts told him to pull up and out. He didn't survive the Blitz to end up as a bloody pancake at the cliff base.

Life really did have a bad habit of throwing a wrench in the works sometimes, but flying more than made up for it.

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Enid Mavis Gwynns took pleasure in bird watching, a hobby she'd enjoyed since she was old enough to toddle to the windows of her house and look outside. She loved everything about birds, the shape of their wings, their aerodynamic forms, how they glided and soared so effortlessly. And the sounds! Literally hundreds of chirps, tweets, songs and screams that made up their language.

At least, others heard them as nonsensical noise. Enid understood nearly every word.

She sat quietly on a sturdy branch of an oak tree, listening in silence to a small flock of sparrows above her. They were chatting about the best places to find worms and bugs, which houses to avoid now the owners had a new cat, and how the seagulls by Megalopolis Bay were trying to make their way upriver and take over their territory.

Then the sparrows and Enid were startled out of their perches by a loud whirring that sounded over the treetops. The sparrows were quick to take wing, but Enid nearly toppled out of the oak. Only a frantic grab of the trunk saved her.

Curiosity took hold after a moment, and Enid quickly climbed up the tree to the highest point she could reach safely. There was the source of the whirring, heading for downtown Megalopolis. And down there, at the cliff's edge...

Enid Gwynns, like most girls who resided in the Riverview suburb, attended Riverview Heights Preparatory. She enjoyed it, as the school's location gave her some of the best bird watching opportunities all year round.

But then there was that merger with the Riverview boys, which Enid wasn't too enthusiastic about. Many girls fully ignored school convention to visit the boys and gossip eagerly about their encounters later, and one name came up as often as not – Mackenzie Kintail. From hearsay, he was the quiet type with a few friends, and was athletic and studious. He wasn't a jock, but nor was he a nerd; he was simply an average guy who (like everyone else) happened to have more money than usual. Rumor had it that he was British and had had to leave the country because of the war. For what it was worth, nobody had heard him speak with an accent, so a lot of people ignored that one.

Enid wasn't too enthusiastic about young Mr. Kintail either, as he seemed rather sly and secretive during the one time she'd met him. He was looking intently at his watch in the Riverview library before running out of the building, earning a reprimand from the grumpy archivist as he did so.

And now Mackenzie Kintail stood not more than fifty yards away, standing on the precipice. As Enid watched, he smiled, a surprise in itself: nobody had ever seen Kintail smile before.

She was still watching in bemusement when he spread his arms and pitched himself forward, off the cliff.

Enid gave a scream and really did fall out of the oak this time. Arms flailing, she plunged downwards, involuntarily closing her eyes.

_'Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop makeitstopmakeitstop...'_

It did.

She stopped falling, and the birds around her were chirping crazily.

Enid slowly opened one eye, then the other. Her favorite shirt was torn with a black patchy stain on her shoulder, and innumerable scratches and cuts were on her arms and legs. She checked her feet, making sure no damage was done there, when two things made themselves known:

One, she was not standing on the ground.

Two, she was floating in mid-air without any visible aid.

She promptly dropped another six feet in shock, seizing a branch to stop her descent. Her feet still hung in space, as if she were standing on an invisible floor. Dazed, Enid shut her eyes again, and experimentally prised her fingers off the branch one by one. With that done, she reopened her eyes.

Nope, still floating.

Among her feathered audience was a large red robin. It cocked its head and took off; flying past her with a loud chirp that Enid knew meant, "Come on!"

Intuitively, Enid followed it. Any initial fears melted away in moments. Oh God, this was wonderful! No harnesses or wires, no uncomfortable airplane cabins, just pure and simple _flight_, and Enid loved every moment of it.

She twisted and turned, dodging tree trunks, speeding up in a delirious exhilaration. Banked right, and left the tree line, finding herself at the cliff.

The cliff. Mackenzie.

Euphoria gave way to horror. Enid made an ungraceful landing, if one could call a belly flop a landing.

"Need to work on that," she muttered to herself, darting on foot to the edge, where she knelt and peered over.

He'd jumped from there. He might've been upset over the classes merging too, but surely that wasn't so great a problem to _kill_ himself over! Enid expected blood, bone, entrails, all the messy signs of a suicide.

She did not expect to see nothing. Confusion added itself to her shock. Enid felt the adrenaline-infused strength drain out of her, and she collapsed in an exhausted heap against an obliging rock a few feet from the overhang.

_'I know I saw him... So where did he go? Have I gone crazy?'_

Enid groaned, once again looking down at her ruined clothes.

_'And what am I going to tell Mom and Dad?'_

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**Downtown Megalopolis, USA, August 1952**

Macroburst had reached the museum in record time, donning his mask and shedding his civilian clothes as he flew. Plasmabolt had touched down only mere seconds after he did, glaring at him askance.

"Does everything have to be a race for you, Mackie?" she asked, only half-joking. She held out a duffel bag that was twin to her own. "Here."

"Thanks. And we might as well enjoy life, Plasma," he retorted while stuffing his civilian clothes into the bag. "Why the long face?"

Plasmabolt had been quietly marvelling at Macroburst's ability to shift easily between his native London inflection and that of his adopted country. "What? Oh, I thought I saw one of those Riverview Heights girls in the trees on my way here, right before we met up. She's a member of the local bird watching society, I see her often in my civilian job. Decent enough girl, really helpful."

"That's nice," Macroburst said, scanning the museum perimeter. There was a backdoor, some sort of emergency exit that looked promising if they needed to get inside quickly...

"And I think she might've seen Mackenzie Kintail jump off that cliff," Plasmabolt reluctantly added.

Her teammate nearly broke his neck from whiplash turning to face her.

"Not good. Will we need to call Dicker?" Macroburst asked nervously. Granted, it wouldn't be the first time the NSA agent had had to erase a civilian's memory of seeing something that they shouldn't have – and Macroburst was by far from the worst offender – but surveillance and probation really wasn't the best thing to be under when one was a super.

"Ol' Rick? No, I had Everseer scan her. The girl now thinks she got sunstroke from staying out too long and started hallucinating. It happens sometimes," Plasmabolt smiled reassuringly. "Your accent's back, did you notice?"

Macroburst scoffed. "Hardly."

"I rest my case."

"Hey!"

_'Macroburst. Plasmabolt. Are you there?'_ Everseer's voice boomed in their heads.

_'South side of the museum.' _Macroburst replied. _'You?'_

_'North, with the bulk of the police force; they can't talk Bomb Voyage into a compromise. Psycwave is ready to paralyse him, but we all know that's short term. Plasmabolt, you and I will need to infiltrate the building before then. Have you any means of entry?'_

_'Fire exit right here, and still open.' _Plasmabolt answered, perusing the door in question. _'Looks like a few of the museum patrons and staff managed to get out that way. Have you located the bomb?'_

_'Yes. Psycwave will send you the schematics now.'_

As Plasmabolt stiffened under the mental images that were flooding her mind, Macroburst heard Everseer again. This time, his voice was quieter, more paternal, and Macroburst knew this conversation was private.

_'Son, d'you think you'll be able to help us out inside there?'_

Macroburst was silent, but the memories rose again unbidden. The bombs. The screams. The suffocating darkness that seemed like it would never end. An involuntary shudder ran through him, and Everseer had his answer.

_'I thought as much. You might want to head north, stay with Psycwave. There's a good chance she may need to possess the frog. Guard her then if it comes to that.'_

_'I will, Uncle.'_ Macroburst responded.

_'Good lad. Bring me over to your position and head to mine so we can finish this.'_

**To be continued...**

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Well, my first ever Incredibles fanfiction, and on characters from the NSA files to boot! Feels a bit odd to write with only grainy pictures and the briefest of descriptions to work with, but I can only hope this started out on the right foot.

I had to devise a timeline of sorts with only the few concrete dates given in the film, and here Macroburst would have been born in early September of 1936. Stratogale (Enid) is a year younger while Everseer is some 23 years Mackie's senior. Which means Mackie would have been 4 years old during the Battle of Britain.

Crikey, I _have_ too much time on my hands...

But wait! There's that nice blue button on the lower left of your screen... Yes, that's the one. Don't leave here without telling me what you think!


	2. Qualifications

**Flying High  
****Chapter 2 - Qualifications  
****By: CountessMorgana  
**----------------------------------------------------------

**The daughter of Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl was not the first high-school student to be a super, and she certainly wasn't the first teenager to have a crush on a boy. Before Violet Parr and Tony Rydinger, before the ban on supers, before the Glory Days ended, there was Stratogale and Macroburst. And their story isn't quite as typical as one would expect.**

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_Welcome to the Planet  
__Welcome to existence  
__Everyone's here  
__Everybody's watching you now  
__Everybody waits for you now  
__What happens next?_

_I dare you to move  
__I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor  
__I dare you to move  
__Like today never happened  
__Today never happened before_

**Switchfoot, "Dare You To Move"**

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**Riverview Suburb, Gwynns Household, August 1952**

Enid felt lucky that her parents hadn't arrived at the Gwynns' Riverview home before she did. Her mother would have started scolding her on the state of her clothes; her father would have made pointed remarks about 'more serious work' that Enid ought to be doing. To the Gwynns, their daughter's bird watching was merely a time-consuming hobby.

The only place Enid where had ever confided her dream of becoming an ornithologist was her diary, hidden away in her bedroom beneath the floorboards. Had she confessed her ideal profession to her parents, Enid knew they would disown and disinherit her the moment all the proper paperwork was signed. Her father was like that.

Mr. Alan Gwynns was a lawyer with Megalopolis' biggest firm – Dewey, Cheetam & Howe LLP – and had recently been promoted to senior partner. It was an open secret that Mr. Gwynns had not been first choice for the position: He was only decided on after the abrupt departure of his long time rival, Simon J. Paladino. Exactly why Paladino had left the firm so unexpectedly would probably never be known for sure, but officially it was due to personal reasons. Mr. Gwynns, of course, hadn't complained. Not in public.

Enid changed her clothes, quietly disposing of her ruined bird watching garments in the furnace, and was about to look for a snack when the phone rang. Taking up the receiver, she continued to browse through the fridge. "Gwynns residence."

"Enid?" Alan Gwynns' gruff voice came down the line along with an odd assortment of background noise, including sirens.

"Dad! Is everything all right? I thought I heard the police over on your end..."

A loud snort from her father cut her off. "Well, there's nothing wrong with your ears. You heard right. Calling to tell you and your mother that there's some sort of disturbance in the downtown core at the museum. All traffic's been diverted off the major routes, so I won't be home for no less than another hour."

"Isn't your office right by the museum?"

"Yep, front row seats to watch the whole thing. Police have the building surrounded and the entire area blocked off. They've called in one of those super teams to deal with whatever's inside."

"But if there's trouble, shouldn't you leave? What if something happens?"

"I'm a lawyer, remember? Besides," Mr. Gwynns sneered, "if something does happen, we're all equal under the law. I'll be happy to sue the pants off them, super or not."

Enid sighed. Her father sounded like he was enjoying the show, even though she was more worried about the situation. "Wish I could see what was happening."

"You can. Turn on the TV later tonight, the newsreel will tell you everything. I'm on the seventh floor of the Walker Building – Hey, the supers are going in! Paul, you got your camera ready—"

A burst of static on her father's receiver, followed by indistinct but excited voices, and one final loud clattering as the receiver was replaced in its cradle.

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**Downtown Metropolis, Museum of Antiquities**

Everseer made it sound so simple. He and Plasmabolt would go into the museum while Psycwave and Macroburst remained outside. Psycwave would paralyse Bomb Voyage, and in the 30-second window provided, Plasmabolt would disable the remote for the explosives with a contained miniature electromagnetic pulse. Everseer would finish up with a series of illusions to distract the French villain, with the remainder of the team getting the hostages out to safety.

But as the proverb said, 'easier said than done'. Standing outside the museum by the Walker Building, even those without enhanced senses could hear screaming, glass shattering, a number of loud thuds, cursing in French (Bomb Voyage), cursing in English (anyone else), and shouts in a language that certainly wasn't European in origin.

"Oh, my poor exhibit," someone lamented. Macroburst and Psycwave didn't have to look far – a museum curator was standing beside them, shaking slightly.

The two supers exchanged glances. Psycwave raised an eyebrow and smirked, deliberately turning back to watch the museum entrance. Macroburst winced and scrambled for something to say that wouldn't make him sound like an utter moron.

"Please remain calm, sir. I'm sure great care is being exercised to guarantee the safety of your collection." Macroburst knew he had failed to pacify even as he spoke.

The curator was not happy. "Do you hear with half an ear, young man? That noise alone would signify severe damages to my artwork! This exhibit is composed of a series of—"

"—Internationally renowned, priceless treasures by one of the world's Impressionist masters, on special loan from the Van Gogh and Kröller-Müller Musuems in the Netherlands," Macroburst finished for him. Upon seeing the curator's flabbergasted expression, Macroburst smiled slightly. "I read the paper this morning, and I know the others doing their best to avoid damaging anything of value. I'm willing to bet you'll have broken display cases at worst. Just have faith."

Sputtering, the curator didn't have time to respond before Psycwave gave a small cry. Her eyes bulged and she seemed short of breath.

"Sorry, kid," Psycwave whispered. Her eyes rolled up in her head, and she collapsed onto Macroburst, nearly knocking him over with her dead weight.

"Dear Lord!" the curator exclaimed, their quarrel over the state of the Van Gogh exhibit forgotten. "She's epileptic!" The nearby media representatives burst into a hive of whispering and speculation, and many raised their cameras for a shot of Psycwave's prone form.

"I-is she dead?" a nearby police officer asked. More shouts from the various news reporters. To his credit, the officer was quick to realise his gaffe and began to help block the wave of flashbulbs and lenses. Macroburst nodded gratefully.

"She's not epileptic, and she's not dead. She's only possessed Bomb Voyage," the super told them shortly. "And I wish you'd said something earlier, Psycwave," Macroburst muttered under his breath.

"Possessed?" the curator yelped.

Any further line of conversation ended when the main doors of the museum opened, allowing about a dozen people to run from the building screaming in terror. Among them was a well-dressed young couple of obviously Oriental heritage, the woman of which darted into the arms of an older man standing near the front line of the police blockade, her sobbing interlaced with words of the same language Macroburst hadn't been able to identify earlier. To Macroburst's relief the journalists ran to the foreign trio amid shouts of "Mr. Fujiwara, Mr. Fujiwara!"

"Bomb Voyage's hostages are clear!" Megalopolis' Chief of Police shouted over a loudhailer. "Take him out!" Putting down his amplifier, Chief Robson made his way to the supers outside. "And get an ambulance over here, stat!"

"No, no, she's fine." Macroburst told him. "Don't call in a medic for her, this is standard—"

"Disregard that!" Robson shouted over his shoulder. "I don't think I'll ever get used to this whole superhero business," the police chief admitted. "Heck, you kids are great for situations like now, but what'll happen in the long run? Might be out of a job soon, if you catch my drift."

"Don't worry, Chief Robson," Macroburst said. "We might be supers, but even we'd have a damned hard time controlling all the crime in the country – short of being in two places at once."

"Haven't got a super who can do that yet?" Robson grinned. "Bet you wouldn't mind that for a power."

"Cheers to that," Macroburst agreed.

Robson laughed and clapped Macroburst on the shoulder. "You're all right, kid," he chuckled, keeping an eye on the museum. "And here comes the rest of the crew."

Indeed, Bomb Voyage was leaving the museum with an oddly feminine gait, followed by a dishevelled Everseer and exhausted Plasmabolt. The supers were instantly swarmed by the hoard of media personnel. The villain quickly descended the steps, made his way to the blockage, and held out his wrists. A grim officer promptly secured handcuffs and fetters on the unresisting Francophone. Once the specially reinforced police van was speeding away with Bomb Voyage inside, Psycwave groaned and began to stir.

"Ça me gêne de le dire, mais plus jamais," she mumbled.

Chief Robson gaped. "Is the French speaking standard as well?"

"Usually she'll retain traces of the people she's had to take over," Macroburst replied, helping Psycwave to her feet. "Speech patterns, mostly. And seeing how it's Bomb Voyage..."

"Ahhh," Robson said in understanding. "Does that mean you'll be needing to use sign language until the whole French thing wears off?"

Macroburst only shrugged.

"Je suis claque," said Psycwave sleepily.

"Dors bien!" Macroburst told her. "Il faut que nous partons de toute façons."

Everseer and Plasmabolt finished their statements to the media as Robson frowned. "Uh, I guess you won't need to use sign language. She's not contagious, is she?"

"The Phantasmics are a team assigned to international threats." Everseer spoke with just a hint of condescension. "All our members need to acquire various skills in order to carry out our objectives. Linguistics is but a part of it, Chief Robson."

"O-of course," Robson stuttered. "I didn't mean to offend."

"No harm done, Chief Robson." Everseer said, adding telepathically to Macroburst, _'Get us out of here, lad.'_

Macroburst concentrated, and the winds began to pick up speed, circling and enveloping the quartet, lifting them all up until they were well clear of the skyline.

Chief Robson, with the rest of Megalopolis, shaded his eyes to properly see the four small black specks in the sky. Then, without warning, the specks blurred and shot off towards the coast, leaving the city safe once again.

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**Secret Mid-Ocean Location: 'New Atlantis'**

"Let me get this straight. The Phantasmics are a super team assigned to international threats." Plasmabolt mused aloud after their debriefing nearly two hours afterwards.

"Yes, Plasmabolt." Psycwave is irritated, and Macroburst doesn't exactly blame her.

"So why were we sent to deal with a mission on the home front again? I mean, aside from the German painting and French super villain—"

Macroburst noticed Psycwave slowly grinding her teeth together. Plasmabolt, for all her good nature, was still a bit on the slow side to piece things together. And she didn't have Psycwave or Everseer's mental abilities or any of the other three's own intensive academic upraising to help her out either.

"He's Swiss," Macroburst said before Psycwave could launch into a tirade that would begin a fortnight-long barrage of sniping and insults between the two superheroines.

"Sorry?" Plasmabolt asked.

"Bomb Voyage is from Switzerland, one of the French-speaking communes," Macroburst elaborated.

"Vincent Van Gogh was Dutch," Everseer added crisply, "and those two Dutch museums would have Megalopolis' curators' heads on a platter if Bomb Voyage got away. With the prize paintings they had finally allowed to let on loan after five years of legal wrangling, no less."

"_And..._" Psycwave drawled. "The final reason why we were called in was because the Japanese ambassador's daughter and son-in-law were among the hostages. If that doesn't help qualify this as semi-international incident, I don't know what will. Oh, and the Japanese Embassy sent us _that _as a thank-you gift." Here Psycwave waved a hand at the planter by the door, which was holding a sapling decked out with a large pink bow.

"A tree?" Plasmabolt looked much more eager about the present than the rest of the team as she went over to inspect it. "This is a cherry tree!"

"Apparently the cherry blossom is the Japanese national flower, or so I'm informed," Everseer told her. "Would you like to keep it, Plasmabolt?"

Plasmabolt was caught between hesitant and genuinely pleased. "Well, yes, yes I would! But won't any of you mind?"

"I can assure you that both Dr. Cameron and myself are much too busy with our practice to allow the plant to survive long."

Psycwave (or Dr. Rose Therese Cameron, psychologist) promptly made a face at Everseer's back. Everseer, rubbing his hands with antiseptic gel in his never-ending quest to rid himself of germs, didn't deign to notice.

Macroburst grinned. "And don't look at me. I can barely keep a goldfish alive for a month, let alone a tree. Sad to say, but looks like you're the only one of the Phantasmics with any sort of green thumb, Sylvia."

"It's Plasmabolt here," came the testy reply, her brow furrowed. Everyone present knew how much she strove to keep her identities as a superheroine and forest ranger separate and distinct at all costs.

Finally Plasmabolt got to her feet, potted tree in hand.

"So you will take it?" The way in Psycwave spoke hinted more to a statement than a question.

Plasmabolt shrugged and put in a jab of her own. "Only because the rest of you seem to be overly qualified."

Psycwave's mouth dropped open in indignation while Macroburst nearly fell out of his chair laughing. Everseer sat through the resulting squabble for a minute before he had enough. The argument between the two women swiftly ended when he broke in with a loud call of "Phantasmics, dismissed!"

Earlier, four supers had entered New Atlantis. Two hours later four civilians and a potted tree left it, ready to resume their lives and roles in Megalopolis society.

At least until next time.

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**Riverview Suburb, Gwynns Household**

_"... And there you have it! Megalopolis police have the notorious Bomb Voyage in their custody, and Van Gogh exhibit at the Museum has been saved. Due to the disruption and cleanup efforts, the closing date has been extended. There's still a week left to come see it! On behalf of the people of Megalopolis, thanks again to the Phantasmics for saving the day."_

That had been about four hours ago. Enid had watched the newsreel raptly, only leaving when the segment had finished and her relieved mother firmly switched off the television.

Homework was done, books were read, baths were taken, a diary was written in. Now under her bed covers, Enid had waited, listening carefully until her father's snores echoed through the walls of the house. There was no chance of her parents waking up to overhear her. Slowly, she pushed the thin duvet off herself and curled up, shaking in silent hope.

The Phastasmics were supers. Sure, the supers wore flashy costumes and nearly all had powers. But most importantly, they helped people out of a sense of duty from situations no matter how insignificant.

It hadn't truly struck Enid until then that her communicating with birds in their own language was not a normal human feat. Running through the day's events in her head, she could still recall seeing Mackenzie Kintail jumping off the cliff. Her brain countered that by insisting that she hallucinated from sunstroke. Fine, fair enough.

But nothing in her memory was there to debunk the wonderful knowledge that she had _flown_. If only for a short while she'd been closer than ever to the birds she loved dearly. And if she could fly... She saw the misery that society brought, and saw her chance to alleviate it, if only in a small way. She could _be_ a super, could help all the people she wanted.

Which led to the nagging question – if Enid had flown once, what was stopping her from trying again?

Shivering slightly in her thin nightdress, she stood barefoot on the mattress, closed her eyes, took deep breaths, and willed herself to simply rise. A minute passed, maybe two, without any noticeable change.

Enid felt the disappointment welling up. _'Maybe I was imagining that too, hit my head after falling out of that tree.'_ She opened her eyes so she could get back to sleep—

And found herself standing on air, her bed some three feet below.

The overwhelmed girl couldn't contain her joy. She let out a loud, giddy shriek, lost her concentration, and fell with an almighty crash onto the mattress beneath. The bed frame miraculously stayed intact. Her parents' sleep did not.

"Enid!" Mrs. Gwynns shouted. "Stop jumping on the bed and go to sleep! You're not a child anymore!"

"Sorry, Mom!" Enid called back, biting on her lip in an effort to stifle her elated giggles, feverishly planning her next few months.

She would head for the woods first thing in the morning and start honing her skills from those who knew the most on flight – her birds. She would also take up gymnastics again (Enid mentally thanked her mother for forcing her into that program in the first place). Should she take up self-defence too? Or would that seem too suspect? It didn't matter. Any part of her path would take time and patience, and Enid had plenty of both.

**To be continued...**

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**French Translations**

_Ça me gêne de le dire, mais plus jamais._ – I hate to say this, but never again.

_Je suis claque._ – I'm knackered (exhausted).

_Dors bien! Il faut que nous partons de toute façons._ – Sleep well! We need to leave anyway.

Hurrah, chapter two is up! Quite frankly, I was nervous as hell about this part, especially the lack of any real super action and Enid's confirmation of her powers. Also, my beta reader for this project up and packed his bags, so I might not have caught all the little mistakes that are in there. Which means I'm in the market for a new beta, and sorry for any errors!

Speaking of errors, I had to do some tweaking about with chapter one -- thanks to my abymal skills at maths, I completely muddled up Mackenzie's age. With an early September birthday and age of four at the end of the Blitz, he would be 15 in August of 1952. Only goes to show why authors should not be writing into the wee hours of the morning; we just don't see these things!

Do tell me what you think, and please press that nice, lovely blue button down there to your left on the way out! Thank you!


	3. School Daze

**Flying High  
****Chapter 3 – School Daze  
****By: CountessMorgana  
**----------------------------------------------------------

**The daughter of Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl was not the first high-school student to be a super, and she certainly wasn't the first teenager to have a crush on a boy. Before Violet Parr and Tony Rydinger, before the ban on supers, before the Glory Days ended, there was Stratogale and Macroburst. And their story isn't quite as typical as one would expect.**

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_Run and tell all of the angels  
__This could take all night  
__Think I need a devil to help me get things right  
__Hook me up a new revolution  
__Cause this one is a lie  
__We sat around laughing and watched the last one die_

_I'm looking to the sky to save me  
__Looking for a sign of life  
__Looking for something to help me burn out bright  
__I'm looking for complication  
__Looking cause I'm tired of trying  
__Make my way back home when I learn to fly_

**Foo Fighters, "Learn To Fly"**

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**Riverview Suburb, Howard Residence. 9 September 1952**

"Anyway, thanks for the tea, Everard. I'll see you later in the office. These patients... for once I just wish they'd just solve their own problems!"

"Not much future in practicing psychology if that happened. Ta, Rose."

At seven in the morning, Dr. Rose Cameron had graciously arrived in person to drop off a package for Dr. Everard Howard, an unusual but not entirely unheard-of event. She'd stayed long enough for a cup of tea before dashing off, and now Everard was reviewing the list of patients due for appointments that day, recalling their case files and previous visits.

One o'clock, Mrs. Kingston, who was overcoming her bout with depression with his help. Two o'clock would see Mr. Davies and his difficulties with anger management and drink. All things considered, Everard thanked God that he could mentally subdue Mr. Davies should the session get out of hand. Ah, there was Mr. Pollard at three-thirty, who still had problems relating to his adult son and new daughter-in-law even after the wedding was done and over with.

Hmm, bridging a generation gap. Everard smiled. Now _that_ he could sympathise with. Unconsciously Everard's gaze was drawn upwards out his study doors and up the stairs in the direction of one particular room, from where emanated a loud thump and an agonized yell.

"BLEEDING HELL, I'M LATE!"

"Language, Mackenzie," Everard called automatically, quickly checking the clock.

"S'rry," came the muffled reply. Everard frowned at the time – seven-fifteen in the morning. Mackenzie's classes didn't begin until half-eight, and if anything the boy was early for once in his life. Wasn't he?

Mackenzie, at that moment, was clattering down the stairs in a state that had his uncle glaring in disapproval. School blazer only half on, tie knotted sloppily about the neck, bookbag haphazardly hanging off one shoulder, hair still damp from a hasty shower... Everard, yet again, regretted not sending his nephew to Eton. (Or better still, Ampleforth.) These American habits were getting more pronounced in the lad with every passing year. Even Mackie's voice, outside the Howard home and on missions, was indistinguishable from his Yankee schoolmates.

Lord, but Everard wished Kenneth and Mary were still alive to raise their wayward son. He himself was never meant for parenting, surrogate or otherwise, despite Psycwave's protests that he was doing just fine. (Everard did note that Rose demurred when he suggested _she_ take over Mackenzie's upbringing, the twit.)

At half-past seven, Everard finally headed into the kitchen and voiced his curiosity.

"Normally I've quite a time getting you on your way to school at all, let alone on time. How is today any different?"

Mackie tried to explain through a mouthful of toast: "Upper school freshmen get that lecture hall on the third floor, south wing. They finally finished the repairs."

It took a moment for Everard to remember. An electrical fire had burned the hall in question during the holidays, which meant there hadn't been anyone in harm's way – highly fortunate, for the fire turned out to have completely gutted the interior of the lecture hall, and left the exterior walls of the building itself untouched. Very likely the fire would have spread to consume the entire school had it not been for the debut of... "Stormicide, wasn't it?" Everard asked. The young woman with gas-based powers was the subject of many jokes around the NSA.

Mackenzie nodded, taking another bite and saying, "S'pose we're lucky she got her arse there in time."

"Language, son."

Seeing his uncle's displeased expression, Mackie quickly swallowed before continuing. "Anyway, the east back corner seats are the best. Everyone tries to get them because by R.H. tradition, the guy or girl who gets there first secures the whole eastern half of the room for their side."

"Except with the gender divide closed, that tradition's rather obsolete now," Everard remarked.

"True, but going early still pays off. Amery and I'll be there when the doors open. All the kids are after those back seats, especially the scrub team. We're gonna have to run to get ahead of the bas— Uh, yeah."

"Absolutely not. I forbid you to go near those seats. You're to sit up front where your professor can keep an eye on you."

"You're joking, right?" Mackenzie asked, appalled, before shoving down the last of the toast and heading toward the door.

"Fix your tie, lad, and – what's this?" Everard asked, spotting a small box on the steps before Mackie could crush it underfoot.

Mackenzie paused with one foot out the door. "Huh. No clue."

"It's got your name on it," Everard said. Mackenzie immediately seized the package. A letter underneath it was addressed to Everard himself, and the doctor recognised the handwriting.

_'Psycwave,'_ he thought grimly. Her odd visit that morning suddenly made more sense. This didn't bode well.

Everard's musings were interrupted by a joyful whoop from Mackenzie. The elder man looked up in time to see his nephew running down the path, laughing like mad, towards...

Dear Lord, was that a _motorbike_?

With a sinking feeling, Everard espied a set of keys in Mackenzie's grasp. _'Heaven help us all.'_

Lying on the threshold were the remains of Psycwave's package and a second, opened letter. This one was addressed to Mackenzie, and in all likelihood forgotten by the boy. A cursory scan of that missive had Everard swiftly reading the one meant for himself. What Everard saw there had him crumpling the paper in anger as Mackenzie gleefully sped off on the new sports bike.

_'That sanctimonious cow!'_

With his nephew long gone, Everard went back to his list of patients, considering, before he decisively made a call and told the secretary to leave some mid-afternoon slots clear. Hanging up the phone, Everard had a feeling certain faculty over at Riverview Heights Prep might be dropping in before the day was out.

As for his damned colleague, he was going to have a very long chat with Rose once their lunch break came round.

----------------------------------------------------------

**Main Street, Riverview**

_Dear Mackenzie,_

_You're sixteen years old, and I'm pretty sure you'll have gotten your driving licence by now. I also know about those corner seats – and before you ask, remember, I went to R.H. too, even won the east half that year for the girls. Good school, good times._

_Here's something from me to you to get an edge on the competition. All the paperwork's been done and ownership is in your name. You're responsible for insurance and maintenance though, since I'm not that generous. Knock yourself out, kid!_

_Happy birthday, and make the best of it!_

_Rose_

_PS. Just don't try to do anything too stupid, or Everard will kill us both._

He'd really need to thank Psycwave later, Mackenzie knew, even if presents like his were really more run of the mill here. Appearances and displays of wealth were all part of living in highly affluent suburbs like Riverview or neighbouring Arcadia. (Nearby Bayside was seen to be middle-class at best.) Uncle Everard had once remarked that if he had wanted to live with the upper class, he'd have stayed in Britain with the rest of the old aristocratic families instead of these nouveau-riche Americans.

Still, there was one good thing about being a super and living in Riverview. Dollars to donuts the vast majority of Riverview dwellers were thoroughly absorbed with their own personal lives and fluctuating bank account statements. The odd hours kept by the Howard household had always gone unnoticed.

And speeding down Riverview's High Street, Mackenzie hoped it would stay that way. He quickly banished the thoughts from his head, as Riverview Heights Preparatory was directly ahead... And it looked as if he wasn't the only person arriving early in a new vehicle.

With a little manoeuvring, he overtook a silver fin-tailed sports coupe as the vehicles entered the school's student parking lot. Mackenzie spotted his friend and fellow soccer enthusiast Frank Amery in the driver seat waving, and grinned in response. Speeding up slightly, he beat Frank to the first prime spot in the row and the only one that younger students were allowed to claim. The rest would be filled by upperclassmen as per the unwritten rules of the school.

"No fair!" he heard Frank yell.

"All's fair in love and parking wars, Amery!" Mackenzie called.

"Especially when assignments are first-come first-serve!" came the grumbled response.

"Serves you right for slowing down back there," Mackenzie pointed out. "Maybe next time, Frank!"

"Next time my—Hey! Kintail! Wait up!"

Mackie was by then already halfway to the massive double oak doors to the main building. He tugged them open, sprinted inside, and maybe got as far as ten feet before he encountered a setback – he ran right into something.

Stumbling back a few steps, wincing from the impact, Mackenzie squinted at the obstacle and quickly realized what he had run into; not something, some_one_. A girl with curly blond hair was on the floor at his feet, one hand pressed to her forehead and groaning in pain.

"Watch where you're going!" Another girl said heatedly. This one had dark hair cut in a fringe in the front, with the rest pulled back in a plait. She glared at Mackenzie while helping her friend to her feet. Both wore the girls' version of the Riverview Heights uniform, complete with ascots and tailored skirts.

"Sorry, my fault," Mackenzie said apologetically, bending down to take the blonde's other arm. Blondie scowled and made to brush his arm away when something heavy bore down on Mackenzie's shoulders. The weight was gone quick as it came, but the girls still screamed. Mackenzie looked up in time to see both Blondie and Plait-Hair tumble to the floor and Frank Amery's stupid backside as the other boy landed with a solid thump.

Mackenzie was surprised Amery had the nerve to vault over the lot of them. Thankfully his so-called friend managed to avoid the girls – there would have been broken bones instead of frazzled wits if he hadn't.

"Frank!" Mackenzie yelled.

"Sorry!" But aside from the one verbal admission of guilt Frank didn't even pause. "Who's slow now? Might as well give up, Kintail!"

" 'Scuse," Mackie muttered, scrambling to his feet. He wasn't about to admit defeat to someone who literally leapfrogged over his opponents to get ahead.

"Oh, that's nice!" one of the girls shouted. "Leave us here, why don't you!"

----------------------------------------------------------

"They're not listening, are they?" the blonde said as Mackenzie Kintail disappeared up the stairs without answering.

"No," Enid agreed, once more helping her friend up. "But at least we managed to get those back corner seats before they did."

"What I wouldn't give to see their juvenile little faces when they see our notebooks and pens staking out our spots!" the blond girl began to laugh.

Enid smiled, and then a thought occurred to her. "Gemma?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think they'll mind? That we got those seats instead?"

Gemma sighed. "Of course they will. There's just nothing they can do about it."

----------------------------------------------------------

"DARN!"

Mackenzie heard Frank before he saw what his friend was glaring at. Two of the prime seats in question, the same two seats the boys had been gunning for, had been taken. Each desk had a hardbound notebook sitting in plain view, and a fountain pen in the designated groove on top.

"Who the heck managed to get here before we did?" Mackenzie exclaimed indignantly. "I don't get my arse out of bed at six-thirty in the morning for nothing!"

"Don't know, and don't care," Frank grumbled. "This isn't going to go down well."

"Well you're right about that," Mackenzie muttered, pacing the floor. "Considering there's nothing we can do."

"Not entirely accurate."

"What?" Mackie caught a glimpse of Frank's trademarked 'up-to-no-good' grin just before his friend grabbed up the notebooks and the pens, opened up the closer of the desk tops, and stowed them inside. With that done, the lid was replaced and Frank settled into the seat, leaving the very back one for Mackenzie.

"There. Problem solved."

Mackie finally found his voice. "It is not! You just stole them! What are we going to do if their owners show up?"

"Assuming they do show up, we—" Frank paused at Mackenzie's glare— "Oh, all right, _I_ will claim priority seating under the Code of Conduct of Riverview Heights Preparatory School, citing legitimate medical conditions, being diagnoses of claustrophobia and insomnia respectively."

Mackenzie blinked. "In regular English, for people who don't intend to become doctors or lawyers, you're saying we have a right to sit here because I hate enclosed spaces and you need to catch up on sleep?"

Frank considered this. "Yeah."

"Nobody's going to buy that. It sounds like bull."

Frank twisted round in his chair. "It's official bull!"

"Speaking of bull..." Mackenzie nodded towards the doors. "Look who just showed up."

"Who—?" Frank broke off as the new arrival announced his presence.

"Hey, YOU! Amery! Kintail!" a loud obnoxious voice boomed.

Frank's eyes widened comically. "Please God, don't abandon me now..."

Both Frank and Mackenzie turned to see a burly student and two equally muscular companions stalking toward them.

"Are you talking to us?" Mackenzie snapped.

"Ah, the testosterone brigade finally arrives," Frank quipped. "Looks like we have the dubious pleasure of meeting the captain of the scrub football team, Mr. Tom Pecker." The class clown seemed to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in drawing out the bigger teenager's last name.

"Shut up, Amery! You darn well know that I'm talking to you! Get out of those seats, 'cause they're ours! You two guys can go somewhere else!"

"_Your_ seats?" Frank repeated in sceptical tones, before sniffing in contempt.

"We're not giving up so easily, Pecker." Mackenzie snapped. "Why don't you go harass someone who will?"

"Shut up, Mister Fancypants, before I flatten you!" Pecker yelled – and he seemed incapable of speaking in anything lower than a yell; he either bellowed or shouted.

"You and what army? Those gorillas there behind you?" Mackenzie shot back, gesturing at Pecker's companions.

"I don't need nobody's help to deal with the likes of you!" Pecker shouted.

"Really." Frank shook his head. "So why didn't you get up earlier like everyone else?"

"Don't give me that! I know what you're up to! You can get outta those seats now, or I'll _make_ you leave 'em! Hey!" Pecker was getting increasing agitated, mostly because his intended victims were craning their necks to look behind him. "I'm not through with you guys! And what're you looking at?"

"Excuse me. What happened to 'ladies first'?"

Pecker started with surprise and turned awkwardly to face Plait-Hair and Blondie, the girls Mackenzie had run down earlier. It was Blondie who'd spoken, and Mackenzie could hear the low rumble from downstairs signalling the arrivals of the rest of the school's staff and student body. Seats all around were beginning to be filled by eager freshmen, but the group at the prime spots were in an impasse.

"I, um, I..." Pecker stuttered, clearly unwilling to fight either physically or verbally with a girl. "Er..."

"You heard her, Pecker," Frank said lightly. "Still some seats down the row. Why don't you go get those while they're still open?"

Pecker made a snarling noise and stomped to another seat, his goons obediently trailing behind him.

"Glad that's over," Mackenzie muttered. Plait-Hair was staring at him with the oddest expression; he wondered if there was a spot on his nose, or something.

"It's never over," Frank retorted. "This is Riverview Heights, where teachers are bribed on a weekly basis, the scrub team punches out random people at any given time, and no year is complete without at least one science lab getting blown sky-high. If anything, it's just started."

"I concur," Blondie said smoothly. "And I hope you'll pardon me, but you gentlemen appear to be sitting in our seats."

----------------------------------------------------------

"Well, you see ladies, I'm very much afraid they're our seats now," the short dark-haired boy said with a winning smile.

Standing beside Gemma, Enid stiffened. "We put our notebooks on to hold them."

"Do you mean these?" the boy asked. He produced their notebooks and pens from his desk, still wearing that impudent smile. Enid's gaze flickered onto Mackenzie Kintail (she'd recognised him instantly), who shifted in his seat and looked mildly uncomfortable with this turn of events. Nearly everyone else in the room was seated now, with a few last-minute stragglers drifting in. There were a number of vacant seats in the front rows, the immediate front before the teacher's lectern, and most students were naturally adverse to taking them. Enid eyed those seats warily, highly embarrassed, but Gemma was stubborn.

"We came early to get those seats," she whispered furiously, tossing her blonde head.

"Why do you want these seats?" the dark-haired boy asked unexpectedly, all teasing gone.

"What?"

"Well, we're here because Mackie there's claustrophobic and I'm an insomniac."

"Frank!" Kintail hissed.

"You are! Documented medical excuses!" Frank threw back at him, then turned back to the girls. "What's yours?"

"Insomnia my foot!" Gemma snapped. "You're only trying for an excuse to sleep through class!"

Raising an eyebrow, the Frank boy sat back with a challenging glint. Kintail snickered. "Doesn't everyone?"

"Fine. I'll play your game." Gemma sniffed. "I've mild scolionophobia, she's agoraphilic. Both 'documented medical excuses'. Will you go already?"

People were beginning to stare, the boys looked at each other and grinned, and Enid saw red.

"They belong to us. You get out!" Enid said loudly. Both Kintail and his friend Frank were taken aback, and someone at the front of the room hissed, "Hey, bell's rung and Kropp's on his way! Make up your minds already!"

"Right..." Frank murmured. "Since _I_ don't really need to be here, and _you_—" Here he nodded at Gemma— "don't need to be here either..."

Before anyone could say anything, Frank had jumped to his feet, looped his arm through Gemma's and was striding off down the aisle with her in tow, pausing only briefly enough for the blonde to frantically grab her notebook and pen and for Frank to say cheerily, "See you in math class, Kintail!" He continued on his way with a very displeased Gemma, who, unlike Frank, wasn't even half as inclined to give up her seat just like that.

----------------------------------------------------------

Mackenzie watched nonplussed as Frank left with Blondie, leaving Plait-Hair to take the last window seat. She seemed to be in a bit of a daze, since it took the long-awaited entry of English teacher Bernard Kropp to get her to sit down.

Though every student present had met him before at various times, this was the first occasion that the entire freshman class, both boys and girls, were together in the same class. And despite most of his colleagues making the best of it by being encouraging, Kropp's opening speech could be more defined as a description of the power structure of the world in relation to 'his' classroom. This was followed by a description of their status in the great cycle of American Life, and ended with an admonition that he would not be accepting, from any of them, what he termed 'guff'.

After a brief moment of silence someone asked what 'guff' meant. The unfortunate soul was lambasted with five minutes of Kropp's spit-flying lecturing, and a detention on top of it.

Needless to say, if he wasn't there already, Mr. Bernard Kropp was immediately placed at the bottom of every student's list of popular teachers. Not even his declaration that the current seating arrangements would remain thus for the rest of the year, and that everyone should shake hands and meet the new permanent neighbours, boosted his ratings.

While Kropp went about riffling through his briefcase for the new class roster, and chatter broke out with people introducing themselves, Mackenzie murmured quietly to Plait-Hair, "Looks like that's that."

"I'd rather have it differently," she said, dark plait hanging down her ramrod-straight back.

Shrugging, he leaned forward and stuck out his hand. "I'm Mackenzie Kintail, how do you do?"

Plait-Hair glanced at his outstretched palm, and finally turned around in her chair to clasp it in her own. "Enid Gwynns, pleasure."

**To be continued...**

----------------------------------------------------------

Here's chapter 3 of this mad little tale, introducing characters that, while seemingly insignificant, do have some part to play down the road. Even Bernie Kropp, but we all know what happens to him in the long run (that man doesn't seem to have much luck with teaching and supers).

Many, many thanks to the lovely and fantabulous Spindle Berry, who took time out of her undoubtedly busy life to beta this chapter – here's to you!


	4. Imbroglio

**Flying High  
****Chapter 4 – Imbroglio  
****By: CountessMorgana  
**----------------------------------------------------------

**The daughter of Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl was not the first high-school student to be a super, and she certainly wasn't the first teenager to have a crush on a boy. Before Violet Parr and Tony Rydinger, before the ban on supers, before the Glory Days ended, there was Stratogale and Macroburst. And their story isn't quite as typical as one would expect.**

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_For the life of me I cannot remember  
__What made us think that we were wise and we'd never compromise  
__For the life of me I cannot believe we'd ever die for these sins  
__We were merely freshmen_

**Verve Pipe, "Freshmen"**

----------------------------------------------------------

Years later, Mackenzie Kintail would look back and see that it hadn't really started with that handshake on the first day of school.

If the series of unfortunate events that started to occur later that afternoon hadn't come about, most likely he and Enid Gwynns would have been acquaintances at best, and hers just another vaguely familiar name and face in the alumni newsletter when their school days were done and over.

But they did occur, and life began to veer off course.

And all that happened to light the fuse were the stupid remarks of a zany friend, the equally stupid reaction from the scrub team's captain, and a bout of ill-timed claustrophobia.

----------------------------------------------------------

**Riverview Heights Preparatory School: 9 September 1952**

After the Great Lecture-Hall Seat Adventure, maths was boring. Not even the interminable enthusiasm of their teacher (the aptly named Winifred Sum) could spread to the students and make them appreciate the wonder that was basic trigonometry.

In his seat, Mackenzie was dozing off. It wasn't that the material was going over his head, like the case of Frank Amery in the seat behind him, whose glazed-over eyes and vacant expression were a clear indication of his level of attentiveness. Thank Lord this was the last class of the day for the both of them.

No, Mackenzie already knew the functions of sine, cosine and tangent, their relation to the hypotenuse of a triangle, etc. If Ms. Sum went on about cotangent, secant, and cosecant, Mackie would know those too. That was another thing to attribute to the war – Everard had taken Mackenzie's education into his own hands after re-evacuating to Wiltshire in the aftermath of the Blitz. They'd been using Everard's old school texts as reference; _'Mathematics is the same in every country. It's only the rate of learning that differs.'_

This had finally stopped a year ago, when Everard discovered he'd run out of textbooks to teach from. By then, Mackenzie had received extensive instruction in most subjects, with emphasis on languages and maths. Natural sciences were his only weak point. It didn't help that Riverview Heights was notorious for its poor ratings in that department. If his uncle chose to ask, Mackenzie would be thoroughly blaming the exploding laboratories.

And was it just him, or was it stifling in here?

Tugging at his necktie, Mackenzie examined the window beside him. If there was one thing he always did, regardless of classroom, it was sit by a window. (Failing that, like with those old basement rooms that the freshmen had been using for English classes before the lecture hall was finished, he'd take the seat closest to the door.) Luck was with him – the window was easy to open with its small catch; one just had to loosen the hook and push the frame out.

The problem was that the catch was out of reach, and Ms. Sum would certainly notice if he stood up then and there. Mackenzie glared at the comatose Frank. Where was a diversion when he needed it?

"Now to discover the length of the adjacent, we'll need to use the cosine—Oh!" Ms. Sum exclaimed as she knocked a box of chalk to the floor in her frenzy of writing on the board. "Dear me! Now please hold on class, I just need to pick these up..."

"_'Ask, and thou shall receive,'_" Mackenzie mused quietly as Ms. Sum bent down to collect her spilled chalk. Quickly, while the teacher was busy and a few students still awake helped her, he stood and flicked open the window catch. Resuming his seat, he surreptitiously elbowed the frame out by a few inches. A faint breeze flowed in, too weak to actually relieve him by much.

Of course, there was a way to change that. But he couldn't. Not in the middle of a class full of unsuspecting teenagers.

_'Why not?' _A nagging little voice in the recesses of his subconscious asked.

Probation came to mind. And jeopardising his civilian identity, especially if anyone saw.

_'Who's going to see?'_ The voice persisted, sounding suspiciously familiar by then. _'Isn't wind invisible anyway?'_

Mackenzie sighed. His uncle would skin him alive for this.

But it was odd. That 'conscience' of his had sounded very much like—

----------------------------------------------------------

_'ROSE!'_

In the downtown Megalopolis offices of Cameron and Howard, Psychotherapists, Dr. Rose Cameron paused in the middle of her lunch. His mental shout was enough to cause a headache! Darn him for having the worst timing...

_'Can't it wait, Everard?'_ she answered telepathically, eyeing her sandwich with a tinge of regret.

_'No.'_

Hmm, curt AND angry. Someone was definitely cheesed off, and Rose had a good idea why.

Sighing, she set down her ham on rye, settled back in her chair, and closed her eyes.

On reopening them, the cream coloured walls of her office were gone, replaced by the interior of an elaborate manor house. The room was large and richly appointed, with gilding on the walls and many of the furnishings. Windows stretching from marble floor to painted ceiling allowed a view of expansive grounds and a clear sky. Larger-than-life portraits of noble persons long dead stared from the walls in their finery, and Rose smiled.

"Must you always choose this place?" Rose asked wryly. "Not that I'm complaining, Everard, but a change of scenery would be nice."

"Cullen House is one of the finest country manors in all England, my family home for nearly four hundred years _and_ you're getting a free tour."

"All without ever leaving my office," Rose finished, turning round. Everard was sitting before her in a gilded wood armchair.

"Well, yes, that is the beauty of being in the mental plane – changing it to however one desires, to suit one's tastes. But I'd appreciate it if you'd leave the whinging at the door," Everard replied.

"Whinging?" Rose was unimpressed. "This from the man who alternately complained about and-or threatened his future brother-in-law to the point that his own sister ended up making him hop around the dining room table singing 'God Save The King' to get him to shut up?"

Everard was actually rendered speechless. "Where did you hear that from?"

"You ought to shield your thoughts better when you're reminiscing out of boredom. I don't particularly enjoy having to follow you down Memory Lane. Makes for excellent blackmail material, though."

"Thank you for the input, I'll endeavour to do just that," Everard replied quickly, gamely forcing the topic back on track. "Do take a seat, this won't be long."

----------------------------------------------------------

To have plans go awry seemed to be a family trait Mackenzie Kintail had inherited in spades.

Back at Riverview Heights, he had been thankfully drinking in the fresh, cool air breezing in from the window. (His powers were no small help in this relief.) Resting his head on the tabletop, Mackenzie sighed and prepared to join the majority of his classmates in unconsciousness. He would have gone through with it too, if the breeze flowing in hadn't brought a current of sound with it.

Voices. Familiar ones. Low, male, and inherently stupid – definitely the scrub team, and yes, that was Tom Pecker's characteristic dulcet tones right there.

_"So we go up there and pound 'em, right boys? Ain't no way I'm letting that Amery guy talk trash to me and get away with it!"_

Mackenzie immediately felt the desire to sleep disappear. It was replaced in quick succession by incredulity (it had been a slow deduction, even for Pecker), and then alarm. This didn't sound good, but nothing concerning Pecker or life at R.H.P. ever did.

Craning his neck as far around as possible, Mackenzie quickly ascertained that Frank, despite his appearance of brain-dead ennui, was indeed awake. Escape plans were discussed, critiqued, and settled – Frank would take the side door in the library, while Mackenzie decided to risk exiting through the main doors.

Frank had balked at the idea, only relenting when Mackenzie pointed out that taking the front doors lessened the chance of both boys getting caught.

"If you say so," Frank had said dubiously. "I'd prefer to call that suicide."

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Less than ten minutes later, Franklin Amery didn't know where Mackenzie had gone, and at that point, he didn't care. Call him selfish, but the handful of goons pelting after him was sufficient reason for single-mindedness.

The scrub team had split into two groups to better chase down their luckless quarry. Frank was fast, but the testosterone brigade was unfortunately faster, finally catching up to him just outside the library doors. There were only a few more feet to go, and Frank refused to consider an ignoble defeat.

Still running, an idea came to the would-be victim. Taking a deep breath, Frank put on a grin, waved to someone behind the scrub team, and yelled,

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Branksome! How're you today?"

The words had an immediate effect: the foremost of the football goons panicked and desperately tried to put on the brakes. His friends were not so quick to react, and adding in an untied shoelace and a conveniently placed trashcan, the end result was predictable – a six-man pileup in the middle of the library corridor.

By the time the dust cleared enough for the young men to realize that the esteemed Principal Branksome was nowhere in sight, Frank had made it out of the library and into his Cadillac, turned the ignition, and floored the gas.

So when a furious gaggle of athletes finally thought to look out the window, they did so in time to see the sun reflecting off a pair of silver fintails as Amery made good his escape and tore out of the parking lot.

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While Frank Amery congratulated himself on a job well done, his friend was not so lucky. Upon hearing Pecker's yells booming from behind, Mackie knew he'd gotten the short end of the stick when the scrub team had divided in two packs.

Refusing to take the stairs like a civilized person (too much of a time waster) Mackenzie had vaulted over the balustrade, landing soundly on the lower stairs and scaring a group of third-graders into hysterics. The science hall was easy to traverse, but a lack of obstacles only made it easier for Pecker and Co to close the distance between them.

He would have been able to make it out in time, given a few more seconds.

So how had he ended up in a closet with, out of all people, Enid Gwynns?

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Enid had been minding her own business after finishing her last class of the day. (Science, basic chemistry, and miraculously there had been no damages. Not even a broken test tube.) Ecstatic over the lack of casualties, their teacher had dismissed them five minutes early. Gemma had gone straight home to baby-sit her younger brother Arthur, but Enid had decided to linger.

"KINTAIL!"

Oh dear. Turning around, Enid's suspicions were confirmed as Mackenzie hurtled round the corner so quickly he skidded and nearly fell. Thundering footfalls from behind him could mean only one thing, and Enid knew nobody deserved to be on the receiving end of Pecker's rage.

So she did the only thing she could do – darted forward into Kintail's path, and shoving him hard, propelled both him and herself into the small antechamber not three feet away. Enid scrambled back up in milliseconds to seize the doorknob and slam it closed, leaving the two of them in darkness.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Until she heard Kintail's gasping and realised that they weren't from exertion.

"Kintail?" she ventured nervously. Had she broken something?

He didn't answer. Instead, he got to his feet and tried to move past her, to get out of there. But with the lights out and both of them blind as bats, all he got was a load of clattering objects, and Enid grabbing on to him to stop him from moving any more than he could.

"Quiet!" she whispered frantically. "Pecker's still outside. Do you want him to find us here? This is a dead end!"

Outside was angry shouting. Pecker's shouts were audible above the rest, demanding to know where 'that jerk Kintail' had gone and getting varied answers. These were soon joined by the authoritative tones of an administrator. Sullen mumblings from the scrub team followed, and finally, the tramping of feet departing reached their ears. Five minutes passed, but the moment relative silence was heard Kintail immediately redoubled his efforts to get out.

Enid would have none of it. "You're not going out there!" she said, blocking his way.

"Yeah? Watch me," he snapped, pushing against her.

"Will you at least let me see if the coast is clear?"

"No. Move!" he said, the level of urgency in his voice increasing.

"What's gotten into you, Kintail? Quit jabbing me in the back there!"

"I'm not—!"

But at that moment, something round and metallic under Mackenzie's foot gave way, forcing him forwards. Enid was leaning back to avoid whatever it was that was poking her. The two teenagers fell against the door, which burst open.

"... I can assure you, Mr. Duncan, there is ample funding put aside in this year's budget to ensure full repairs if – WHAT IN TARNATION IS THIS!"

Oh God, no. Two very red faces looked up to see the scandalized features of one Eileen Branksome, principal and autocrat of R.H.P.

"My office," Mrs. Branksome said, barely containing her rage. "_Now._"

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The time was half three and Everard Howard was in his office, drinking a mug of something hot, steaming and blissfully free of milk, but scented of bergamot and lemon. Mr Pollard had cancelled, apparently to celebrate his impending grandfather status, to which Everard had offered his congratulations and good wishes.

The new secretary he and Rose had hired was young and adequately competent, but in Everard's opinion couldn't make tea even if her life depended on it. The first time Doris had brought him a cup was not more than an hour ago. He'd taken a swig only to have it promptly expelled again, as the milk in it had gone rancid with alarming speed, diverting his attention away from the telepathic conversation he was having. Rose, God bless her, was quick on the uptake and had rapidly stepped in with a proper replacement before explaining to Doris exactly why milk and Earl Grey did not mix for the British.

"Dr. Howard, you have a call from a Mrs. Eileen Branksome." Doris' voice was slightly subdued.

"Does she have an appointment?" he asked absentmindedly, wiping at a spot of milk-laced tea he'd missed earlier.

"No, she's the principal over at Riverview Heights Preparatory School. She says if you could please come in for a parent interview at the earliest possible convenience, and since you don't have anyone scheduled for this time..."

Everard choked on his drink. "Parent interview? On what grounds does the actions of my nephew necessitate _my_ contribution?"

"The details weren't clear, sir, but I believe it was for a breach of conduct." Doris replied. "'Lewd behavior on school property', I think was the term used. Will you be attending? The parent of the other party is already on their way."

"It would seem I have no other choice," Everard said grimly. Just the usual, really.

Although he _was_ rather worried about what Mackenzie could possibly have been doing to warrant that kind of an offence...

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_"Look pal, I don't know how it goes over in merry old England, but we're in the Land of the Free now, and 'Land of the Free' does NOT mean freedom to harass girls in janitor's closets. Especially when the girl is MY DAUGHTER!"_

Such were the words used by Mr. Alan Gwynns to Everard Howard, Mackenzie's uncle and evidently also his legal guardian. The contrast between the two men was remarkable. Standing on one side was Enid's father with his receding hairline and lean stature, nearly purple with unconcealed indignation. Seated opposite him was an imposing and taciturn Dr. Howard, possessing all of that infamous British reserve as Mr. Gwynns shouted and Mrs. Branksome watched warily from behind her desk. It was not until Mr. Gwynns threatened legal action that Dr. Howard spoke, and it was with cold aristocratic condescension that sent icy stabs down everyone's spines.

Exactly what he said neither Enid nor Mackenzie could hear through the door, but it had the effect of finally making Mr. Gwynns shut up and concluding the meeting with no penalty for any student. (Little did she know Everard had used his powers to alter and downplay both Principal Branksome's and Mr. Gwynns' perceptions of the event; Mackenzie was aware of it, but didn't say anything.)

It was easier being with her birds. Flying about with them in the trees of Arcadia-Riverview State Forest, Enid could forget all of the complicated, trivial things humans seemed to occupy themselves with so often. Her favorite scarlet robin wasn't there any more, having already departed on the usual migration south, but the sparrows were still around and were happy for her company. Enid's feathered companions didn't give a wit about problems like loud and angry fathers, or unhappy mothers, or annoying childhood friends or odd British-American classmates… Everything was uncluttered and baseline and simple.

Why couldn't humans be the same way?

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Meanwhile, forest ranger Sylvia Briscoe was making her usual rounds on patrol through Arcadia-Riverview State Forest when an odd splash of colour caught her eye. Too large to be a bird, and if it was one of those neighborhood rich kids climbing trees again... Sylvia scowled, gritted her teeth and moved stealthily forward, careful not to make any sound. She didn't want to scare the kid so he fell to his death.

Instead of a snooty brat, her eyes landed on a familiar teenaged girl from the prep school bordering the forest to the south. Had the sighting ended at that Sylvia would have been content. She knew this girl, knew her to be a bird-watcher. Sylvia had even helped her out on occasion. Gwynns, the girl's name was.

But what had Sylvia's breath stop was the Gwynns girl's flying. There were no supports in sight; no ordinary person could pull a stunt like this, and Sylvia was sure there were no records of non-normal civilians in the area with this type of power.

The young Miss Gwynns still hadn't seen her. Backtracking to her truck, Sylvia drove to the nearest ranger cache, a small wooden shelter in a clearing meant for use by the rangers in case anything came up. Inside were extra supplies the rangers might need in the course of their duties, and on the wall was a phone to call the main station over at the front gates.

Sylvia ignored the phone. Instead she dug around in her pockets, pulling out a small communicator, and pressed in a series of numbers she'd been forced to memorize but hoped never to use. One ring was all it took before someone picked up.

"National Supers Agency, Henry Grier speaking. What's the problem?"

Sylvia took a deep breath. "Harry, this is Plasmabolt."

"Well, I'll be!" Agent Grier was pleasantly surprised. "Never thought you'd place a call when off duty, Plasmabolt!"

"Neither did I." Sylvia said, quashing the urge to sigh.

"It's official, Dicker now owes me ten bucks—"

"Listen, Harry, I've got a live one for you."

"Oh?" Grier immediately became serious. "Hold on. Computer, computer... Darn keyboard... Right. I need a name, if you've got one. Physical description helps, and any powers. Heck, just give me anything and everything you've got on 'em, make all of our jobs easier."

A few minutes later, the NSA agent gave a low whistle. "... Riverview suburb, huh? This makes the second time we've got a report of an unregistered civilian from around those parts. And I think I heard that name before, Gwynns. Gazerbeam mentioned it, but I'm not sure..."

"It's not an uncommon surname, Harry," Sylvia pointed out.

There was a cough and a rustling of paper. "One last thing. Were there any potential eyewitnesses in the area?"

"Just me, so please don't send the memory wiper. I like my brain as it is."

Agent Grier laughed. "All right, all right, I won't then. Just sent the boys from Reconnaissance out to do some planting. They should be done by tonight."

"Thanks Harry."

"No problem," Grier said cheerfully. "Although... Could I ask you for a favor?"

Sylvia was instantly wary. "Depends. What is it?"

----------------------------------------------------------

And so when Enid got home, a strange van was sitting in her driveway, and her mother was seeing off a couple of repairmen from the house.

"Thank you so very much, gentlemen," Mrs. Gwynns was saying. "Such thorough service!"

"It was no trouble at all, ma'am," the taller of the workers said genially. "Have a pleasant evening."

"What happened?" Enid asked, staring after the men, the taller one giving his partner a dig in the ribs after the latter spent too long in sending Enid an appraising look.

Mrs. Gwynns sighed. "The lights in the house started flickering and going on and off. I couldn't get them to work properly, and the fuses seemed fine, so I called in the electricians. Hurry up and come inside, there's a draft and I need to start making dinner. Your father will be home soon, go upstairs and change out of those clothes."

"Yes mom," said Enid, casting one last glance over her shoulder before she did as told.

----------------------------------------------------------

Once the door closed behind her, the two 'repairmen' drove off. After ensuring the house was out of sight, the tall driver radioed Agent Grier at NSA's local office and said, "Sir, the beacons are ready."

"Thanks Rob, Max." Henry Grier said, relieved, and switched to another channel. "Audio, visual and physical surveillance are all set up, do you read?"

"Loud and clear, Harry," Sylvia answered. "Need any more electronic disruptions while I'm at it?"

"Nope, that'll do. See you at the Christmas party then, beautiful!"

From the treeline behind the Gwynns' overseeing the street, Sylvia Briscoe smiled, ignored Grier's less-than-subtle flirting, and dropped lightly from her fifty-foot high perch onto the ground.

Mission accomplished, time to go back to her life.

**To be continued...**

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The first day of school is (finally!) over, so the kids of R.H.P. can look forward to Homecoming traditions, sad attempts at flirting and loads of trick-or-treating. It's Halloween in Megalopolis and costumes are par for the course... Until one reveller is shown to have more ulterior motives for donning a mask.

All this and more next time, on _'Flying High'_!


	5. Vicious Games

**Flying High  
****Chapter 5 – Vicious Games  
****By: CountessMorgana  
**----------------------------------------------------------

**The daughter of Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl was not the first high-school student to be a super, and she certainly wasn't the first teenager to have a crush on a boy. Before Violet Parr and Tony Rydinger, before the ban on supers, before the Glory Days ended, there was Stratogale and Macroburst. And their story isn't quite as typical as one would expect.**

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_It's close to midnight and something evil's lurking in the dark  
__Under the moonlight you see a sight that almost stops your heart  
__You try to scream but terror takes the sound before you make it  
__You start to freeze as horror looks you right between the eyes  
__You're paralyzed_

_'Cause this is thriller, thriller night  
__And no one's gonna save you from the beast about to strike_

**Michael Jackson, "Thriller"**

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The third week of freshman year saw Mackenzie Kintail and Enid Gwynns being teased endlessly by Frank Amery, the occasions of which were often interrupted by brief spells where Mackenzie attempted to throttle Frank for being an idiot, or where Enid hit Frank upside the head for innuendo. The day after Mackie and Enid's 'incident', Frank found an unlikely ally in Gemma Modern, Enid's blonde friend; unlike Frank, Gemma always walked away from the conversations unscathed. Mackenzie had had a coughing fit upon hearing Gemma's surname—he promised himself that the next time he was in Metroville, he would ask Edna if she happened to have any extended family in the Megalopolis area.

The fourth and fifth weeks of term had Riverview Heights finally settling back into school life, and the jokes at Mackie and Enid's expense became less and less. Tom Pecker and the scrub team had little time to harass anyone now that training for the football season had started (not that anyone really cared for more duffings). The end of September saw Science Lab 'D' go up in flames after a botched assignment. Various underground student bookkeepers collected their winnings or lamented their losses, and Mackenzie grudgingly paid Frank five dollars.

Before anyone knew it, it was over two months into the school year, the last week of October—Homecoming Week at R.H.P. Toga Day saw many a bedsheet and laurel wreath paraded about; Casual Day saw a showcase of all the latest fashions; the pep rally saw a veritable sea of school colours blue, green and white festooning every available space.

Friday was the last day of Homecoming Week. It would see the school parade, the big game against R.H.P.'s main rival, Central High, and the subsequent Homecoming Ball. As the last day of Homecoming coincidently fell on the 31st, this meant the dance was a costume ball. Teachers and chaperones looked forward to a mostly uneventful evening, where the only danger was boys attempting to spike the punch, and the only entertainment watching the couples trying to dance in ridiculous outfits. It helped that the ball was also open only to upper-school sophomores and above.

As one could imagine, the rule caused no end of grief among the more socially inclined freshmen.

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The big game on Halloween was just starting the second quarter, and already there was restlessness among fans on both sides. Many were students who were obligated to come, and some were voicing their dissent. Nearly all of the displeased were, unsurprisingly, R.H.P. freshmen.

"I _still_ don't see why I'm getting blamed for something _Seamus_ did!" a boy was heard to complain loudly in the back of the Riverview stands. "Just because me name's O'Malley doesn't mean we're all stupid, drunk bastards!"

"Aren't you having a Halloween party at your place after halftime anyway?" Mackenzie asked, turning to the loud-mouthed O'Malley.

"That's beside the point!" he said.

"Would you shut up already, Paddy?" Frank snapped at the Irish boy.

"It's _Patrick_," the other boy said sourly.

"Whatever, Paddy," Frank said rudely, turning to Mackenzie, who in his boredom was inspecting his popcorn. "How'd he get into Riverview Heights again?"

"His family own shares in Guinness," Mackie said listlessly, shoving some popcorn into his mouth. "Not majority, but still fairly sizable."

"The _brewery_? Typical," Frank nearly spat.

An unhappy Frank was not a pleasant Frank, and Mackie knew why his friend was annoyed. Ever since one of the O'Malley clan had caused an obscene amount of damage to the school conservatory (the traditional dance venue and an expansive Victorian-era glasshouse), freshmen were banned from the Homecoming dance on account of being 'socially immature'. The ban was challenged every year, and every year Principal Branksome put her foot down. She was especially adamant this time around: The latest of the O'Malley brood was Patrick O'Malley, a freshman notorious for his house parties, and nobody was about to see him follow in his infamous sibling's footsteps. The fact that Paddy had come about just as Mrs. Branksome was considering a relaxation of the ban had (unfortunately) made the youngest O'Malley quite possibly the most despised person in the freshmen class.

"That's it," Frank said decisively, standing up. "I'm getting out of here."

"So soon?" Mackenzie said, surprised. "It's not even halftime!"

"I came, I saw, and now I'm leaving. No written rule says we have to stay," Frank said flatly, then added, "I'm also sleep deprived, have those Latin translations to work through, and need a sugar boost. Besides, there's got to be something better to do than watch Pecker's crew run around. See you on Monday, Mack."

Even though it was the varsity team on the field (meaning the scrub team had as much chance of playing that night as a snowball lasting in Egypt), Mackenzie waved him off, and Frank disappeared into a sea of blue and green as the crowd roared and cheered a touchdown. He almost hoped Baron von Ruthless might make a go for world domination, if only for an excuse to leave.

"Excuse me, this seat taken?"

"No, go ahead," Mackenzie said, not even looking over at the newcomer.

"You could show a little more enthusiasm, Kintail."

Mackenzie turned, ready to tell this person exactly what they could do with their enthusiasm. He was surprised into silence by the familiar face.

"Having fun, kid?" Rose Cameron asked mockingly.

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On the outskirts of Megalopolis' Bayside suburb, an Acme armored truck was parked outside the Bank of United States depot. The three armed guards had just finished loading the truck full of currency and were enjoying a smoke before driving over to the reserve bank, where their cargo was due to be disposed of. A waning moon languished overhead, and one of the guards noticed the lunar light reflecting off something that glinted gold.

"Hang on. We're not shipping any bullion, are we?" he asked of his companions. They shook their heads.

"So what's—" He broke off, as the gold materialized into a human figure, wearing a form-fitting costume and gimp mask of gleaming yellow with a long mane of dark hair flowing behind. Halloween aside, something told the men this person was not an innocent reveller.

"Trick or treat," the apparition said smoothly.

That was all the warning the guard got in advance. Just seconds later jets of blinding light stabbed forward from her hands, striking the first man at point-blank range. He hit the ground hard, cap tumbling away, and his companions stared in horror.

"Jim!" one man yelled.

"You _witch_!" the other shouted.

Behind her mask, the woman smiled. One down, two to go.

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"Why the heck are you here?" Mackenzie groused. The football game was in full swing below, but he knew more than a handful of male spectators were craning their heads to catch a glimpse of the Marilyn Monroe-esque blonde sitting beside him.

"I'm an alumna, remember?" Rose smiled. "Just thought I'd stop by and see how the old alma mater's doing. Can't begrudge a girl for that now, can you?"

"I guess not," Mackenzie muttered, slouching. "But I know when you're not telling the truth, Rose."

Rose looked at him oddly. "Has anyone told you that you sound almost exactly like Everard when you say things like that?"

"In case it slipped your mind, we _are_ related. I do have some genes in common with the man, like it or not."

"Pity," Rose murmured almost inaudibly.

But Mackie didn't hear, and even if he had his moodiness wouldn't have improved. As it was, he had another, less pleasant distraction – Bernie Kropp was sidling his way down the bench across the aisle. Wonderful, he thought. What the heck did the English teacher want now?

"Kintail, I was grading your last paper just now, and I have to tell you—" Mr Kropp broke off as he 'spotted' Rose. "Oh hello, have we met?"

If the paper Kropp was waving hadn't been completely blank, his ruse might have been more believable. In any event, the incredulous expression on Rose's face was one for the history books. Wordlessly, she turned to Mackenzie, who was strongly reminded of a mission at the museum over two months ago. Perhaps some payback was in order...

Rose caught his thoughts, and her eyes widened in alarm. Mackenzie didn't even try to hide his grin when he said aloud, "This is Mr. Kropp, my English teacher. Mr. Kropp, this is Dr. Rose Cameron of Cameron and Howard, Psychotherapists."

"I'm his aunt," Rose said quickly, shooting Mackie a glower. If looks could kill... well, she wasn't Gazerbeam, so no loss there.

Mackenzie snickered and reached for his popcorn. This was going to be good.

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Two moments after Jim's head had hit the concrete, the other two Acme truck guards had immediately pulled out their standard issue Smith & Wesson revolvers and opened fire. Normal human crooks were one thing, but supervillainesses were another – a point driven home when the woman used her powers as a form of light-based shielding that disintegrated their bullets.

Force fields, one of the guards thought. The darn witch had force fields! Backing up a few more steps, his foot brushed against Jim's arm and belt holster, where Jim's own service firearm lay unused.

"Cover me!" he yelled. The other man obeyed as he reached down and pulled out Jim's gun. Then came the ugly sound of a hammer clicking on an empty chamber.

"Oh heck no..." the guard whispered. "Abe!"

"Get to the truck!" Abe shouted, shooting with Jim's gun.

"But—"

"GET TO THE DARN TRUCK!" Abe screamed as everything went blindingly white around them. The other man covered his eyes in time, but he heard rather than saw Abe's body fall.

The last guard scrambled into the truck, seized the radio dispatch and began shouting frantically.

"Help! This is transport number five-one-eight, robbery in progress, robbery in progress at Bank of U.S. Bayside depot! We have two men down, and assailant is closing in. Assailant has super powers, I say again, assailant has powers! Send in reinfor—!"

There was a knock on the window, an ironic smile through the glass, a finger tapping the edge of sill where the door was set to unlocked.

Slowly, the dispatch dropped out of the man's hand, heedless of the voices blaring through on the other end. "Mother of G—" he began.

The door swung open and a gloved fist caught him squarely on the jaw. He slumped back against the seats with a groan, and did not stir.

Meanwhile, the radio crackled. "Transport five-one-eight, reinforcements are en route. I say again, reinforcements are on their way; just hold on until then. Is anyone there? Hello?"

Angrily, the woman reached out and switched off the offending radio. She punched the unconscious guard again, both as a precautionary measure and out of spite, before sliding out of the cab and hurrying along to the rear. Time was of the essence.

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"You're his aunt?" Mr. Kropp, thrown by Rose's statement, looked questioningly at Mackenzie for clarification. So did Rose.

"Yes," Rose said firmly. Honestly, Bernie Kropp? She might be a bit of goer, but for Pete's sake, she did have high standards!

"Yeah," Mackenzie agreed, as Rose's gaze promised a slow and painful death if he did not comply. Untimely ends aside, this was turning out far better than he'd hoped.

Kropp was persistent. "And Dr. Howard?"

Rose coolly replied, "Everard Howard and I have been long-time partners, and currently seem set to stay that way." _And if that doesn't make him back off, nothing will. _She smiled in Mackenzie's direction and affectionately squeezed his shoulder. Mackenzie tried to shrug her hand off, desisting when her grip became painful.

"I'm sorry," Kropp appeared abashed. "I'm so sorry, I was under the impression..." He broke off, and tried again on a different tack. "If you don't mind me asking, how long have you and Dr. Howard been married?"

_'SAY WHAT!'_

Rose's bottle of Blert Cola slipped from her fingers and shattered, while Mackenzie briefly forgot to swallow his popcorn.

"We're not—" Rose started, faltering. _'Oh hell.'_

"She's not—" Mackenzie began, glancing at Rose. _'Bugger.'_

"He's not married!" they finally said in unison.

"You're not?" If he wasn't already, Kropp was truly embarrassed now. "I'm sorry. Again. I thought, well, that is, I..." His owl-like eyes darted about, finally landing on Rose's unsalvageable cola. "I'll get you another drink!"

"Oh, that's quite all right, really!" Rose exclaimed, but Kropp had already gone just as the horn blared, signalling halftime.

"You and I aren't through, young man," Rose said after a moment, getting to her feet and grabbing her coat.

"Didn't think he'd scared you off," Mackenzie said impetuously.

Rose stood stock still, one hand tightly clamped around her clutch style handbag, the other twitching furiously as if she'd love nothing more than to slap Mackenzie at that moment. Instead she reached out and grabbed his collar, dragging Mackie forward so they were face-to-face.

"Listen to me, you hooligan," Rose said through clenched teeth. "This has gone far enough. If and when that teacher of yours gets back here, you had better – and I mean it – make sure he loses interest. Fast."

"Yes, ma'am." Mackenzie managed to choke out – Rose was cutting off his air.

"Good," she snapped, releasing her grip and letting Mackie fall back into his seat. "I don't care what you say, so long as it isn't slanderous."

"I didn't think it'd go this far!" Mackenzie protested. "And where are you going?"

Rose smirked. "I've a coronation to officiate over. See you later."

She headed down the steps, leaving a stunned Mackenzie by himself. A moment or two passed, and then a fellow student wisecracked, "Seems everyone's bailing out on you, huh Kintail?"

Mackenzie flipped a rude sign at the speaker. "Shut the heck up, Paddy."

"It's PATRICK!" the angry O'Malley nearly wailed.

"Whatever you say, Paddy."

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"One, two, three, four, five..." the gold-clad woman mused, first eyeing the pile of burlap sacks at her feet and then the large amount of currency remaining inside the truck. "Hmmm, this should be enough for a good start."

"A good start would be you putting those back where they belong." The speaker had a flat, monotonous voice, and the thief inwardly flinched before turning to face her new adversary.

"Gazerbeam." She shook her head. "Word on the street was that you'd relocated to the West Coast, over in Municiberg. Guess that'll teach me for listening to hearsay."

"Moving doesn't mean I can't come by for a visit," the superhero said. "You know my name, and I'm afraid that's where you have an advantage. Who are you?"

"Me? I'm the false light, the keystone of vice. I am the demon who haunts all men. I hoard, I covet, and you are the last person who can stop me."

"A riddler," Gazerbeam was stoic. "We'll see if you can give a straight answer once you're in police custody."

Her shoulders slumped. "I'm really no good at this, am I?" She sighed, and Gazerbeam spotted something glittering in her hand. "Can't I have even one, as a keepsake?"

"No," he responded, relaxing his guard slightly. "Do you honestly want to remember how botched up your first heist was?"

"You don't have to add insult to injury. Catch!" she shouted, and the glittering became a full-fledged light. Gazerbeam dove out of the way as the woman's laser skimmed past him, letting loose with one of his own. His aim was more accurate – the blast struck the gilded figure full in the chest, knocking her backwards onto her pile of loot.

Unfortunately, he realised too late that her aim had also been on the mark. There was a sickening crack, a rumbling sound, and then large slabs of concrete from the bunker-like depot fell, pinning the super to the ground. Able only to move his head, Gazerbeam turned to look at his opponent, certain that whatever injury he had sustained, the woman had been taken out as well.

He was wrong. His eye blasts, which had stopped or at the very least done serious damage to countless villains and crooks, hadn't even left a scratch. As he stared in disbelief, she roused herself and staggered to her feet.

"Ow," she whined. "Bit more than what I'm used to. Thanks for the recharge, handsome. And I wouldn't advise doing that again – you'll just make me stronger."

She waltzed over to Gazerbeam's prone form, knelt down, and smiled.

"You wanted to know who I am," she purred. "Je suis la perfidie, je suis l'avidité. Je suis l'Avarice."

By this time the first sirens were heard approaching. Avarice smirked, blew a kiss in Gazerbeam's direction, seized her bags of money, and ran off into the night.

**To be continued...**

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The Halloween madness is far from finished! While the newest villain makes her debut in Bayside, the Riverview crew face a threat closer to home. What's an NSA agent to do when his best supers are on vacation? It's a night of beginnings in Megalopolis, next time on _'Flying High'_!

Author's Note: Exams are finally over (hurrah!) – so chapters should be quicker in coming. Don't forget to press the nice blue button below to your left; reviews make the Countess very happy!


	6. Virtute Fido

**Flying High  
****Chapter 6 –Virtute Fido  
****By: CountessMorgana  
**----------------------------------------------------------

**The daughter of Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl was not the first high-school student to be a super, and she certainly wasn't the first teenager to have a crush on a boy. Before Violet Parr and Tony Rydinger, before the ban on supers, before the Glory Days ended, there was Stratogale and Macroburst. And their story isn't quite as typical as one would expect.**

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_Boys and girls of every age  
Wouldn't you like to see something strange? _

Come with us and you will see  
This, our town of Halloween

This is Halloween, everybody make a scene  
Trick or treat 'till the neighbours die of fright  
It's our town, everybody scream  
In this town of Halloween

**Danny Elfman, "This Is Halloween"**

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"So how much did this 'Avarice' manage to get away with again?"

"Let me put it this way. It wasn't a Brinks, thank God, but enough that the Treasurer still isn't happy. All things considered, who can blame her?" Chief Robson told Agent Grier over the phone. "Are you _sure_ you haven't got any records on Avarice? The way she went about the robbery seemed too professional. Those bills in the truck were going to be decommissioned. If she decides to go on a shopping spree, they're virtually untraceable. And it was bloodless – all of the guards were either stunned or knocked out."

Henry Grier of the NSA ('Harry' to his friends, 'Hal' to his relatives) sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "None, nada, zip. She must be a rookie."

"Won't stay rookie for long, not with superpowers," Robson said darkly. "How's Gazerbeam? He didn't look too good when my men and I got there."

Grier made a noncommittal noise. "He's fine. There're the usual injuries one can expect when one gets hit by a few slabs of industrial bunker, but the docs want to keep him under observation for the night. What about the guards on your end?"

"Like I said, stunned or knocked out. Mild concussion on the guy we found in the cab of the truck."

"I thought you mentioned the other two getting hit by a blunt object," Grier wondered.

"Yeah, the ground." There was a brief pause. "Guess this kind of ruins Halloween for you, huh?"

"Never off duty," Grier said tiredly. "Anything else on the radar?"

"Yeah; you remember that escaped patient from the mental ward at Megalopolis General Hospital? We got a call from a lady in Arcadia."

"Upscale Arcadia." Grier reiterated.

"Exactly. Well, she said he was crossing her back garden heading for Riverview. And it's Halloween, and there are kids and teenagers and parents by the dozen out."

"So, theoretically, a super won't attract attention," Grier said. "I'll see if anyone's nearby."

"Thanks. Happy Halloween."

"You too," said Agent Grier, hanging up.

Great. He'd promised the Phantasmics the weekend off. Agent Pollard had been threatened with grievous bodily harm by Splashdown, who was writing his university midterms and, unless the world was ending, had made it quite clear he was NOT to be disturbed. Thunderhead was out of town, and everyone knew Gazerbeam was downstairs in the medical bay with several bruised ribs and a few broken limbs that the healers on staff were working all-out to mend ASAP. There just weren't any supers active in the Megalopolis area...

"Wait a minute," Grier murmured as inspiration struck. He picked up the phone, dialled a number, and waited for the irritated male voice on the other end to pause for breath. Needless to say, the recipient was far more agreeable once Grier explained the situation. Setting down the phone again, Grier smiled at the irony: It seemed to be a night for rookies.

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Enid Gwynns was completely unaware of the drama that took place at both the Riverview Heights stadium and at the Bank of United States' Bayside depot. Her parents had gone to a Halloween party that Mr. Gwynns' firm was holding at the Megalopolis Convention Center, leaving Enid to hand out candy to the local children. Figuring she might as well get into the spirit of things, Enid had raided the attic and emerged with several items of clothing that had belonged to one of her grandmothers. Although Enid felt she must look ridiculous, the costume worked – early in the evening more than one younger witch or ghoul had run screaming from the Gwynns porch, crying about the 'ghostie', and had needed to be comforted by a chuckling mom or dad. Now that the older kids were making the rounds, Enid's costume was either taken into stride or derided.

"Next year I'll stay away from the moth-eaten ones," Enid mused while picking gingerly at a frayed and tattered hem.

The doorbell rang again. Enid grabbed the cream silk hat with its heavy veil, plonked it on her head, seized her bowl of candy and hurried to the door, fully expecting to greet another batch of costumed children.

Instead she was confronted with a tall, disoriented-looking man in rumpled clothing.

"Is Johnny home?" he asked in a childlike voice.

"N-no," Enid stammered, unnerved.

"Will he be coming home soon?" There was an odd look in his eyes, and Enid suddenly knew that the man was by no means sane.

Enid quickly scrambled for a lie, and took a deep breath. "He's gone with his daddy fishing," she told the man in a kind, unwavering voice. "I'm sorry he didn't tell you before he left. They'll be back tomorrow, though."

The man smiled. "I hope he catches a big one! Thank you very much, ma'am." He turned around and padded down the drive, humming nursery rhymes.

Closing the door, Enid leaned against the wall, the bowl of candy forgotten. Her heart was racing. Halloween. Kids were out in full force, not all with parents, and not all with the presence of mind to act with caution around a madman. Bolting the front doors and the windows, she dimmed the lights in the house and snuck out the back way, using her powers to move through the trees and the foliage as camouflage from the ground below.

It might've been easier if she'd thought to change first – Enid found out the hard way that bustle gowns and tree branches didn't really mix. Oh well, it was too late to back out now.

----------------------------------------------------------

Giving up alcohol entirely for the rest of his livelong days was a prospect that Patrick 'Paddy' O'Malley, scion of the Guinness shareholder family and freshmen at Riverview Heights Preparatory School, was finding extremely attractive at the moment. To discover why, one only needs to look at the last hour of his teenage life.

Half-past eight, and the stands at Riverview Heights' football stadium were beginning to empty. The Homecoming Court was announced and honored, with the predictable popular results. Last year's Homecoming Queen was unable to return and crown her successor, citing something about curfew at her finishing school in Switzerland. Her replacement was Rose Cameron, a local psychiatrist (or was that _'psychologist'_? Paddy could never remember the difference). A blonde bombshell, Cameron was herself not only a former R.H.P. Homecoming Queen but also Miss Megalopolis 1946 and first runner-up at Miss America 1947. The joke was going around that more guys had been staring at Dr. Cameron than the new Homecoming Queen.

Now, one particular group of prep school freshmen was wandering down Hamilton Drive. Summed up, they were sick of the Homecoming game, couldn't go to the dance, and probably wouldn't even _want_ to go if Branksome had a miraculous change of heart and reversed her judgement.

"Jeez, Pads, you said you'd be starting after halftime!" Adrian Harper, nephew of Megalopolis' mayor, grumbled at his friend.

"No, I said _'after halftime when my parents leave the house'_," Paddy corrected him. "We've got one down, now we just have to wait for the other. This wasn't in my plan, but I can't help it. I mean, we can't just rush them out the door now, can we? Me dad would kill me and this whole thing would be dead before it started!"

"But—" Adrian started, doubtlessly to whine again.

"Aw, put a sock in it, Harper," said another boy. He hefted up a bag, and opening it, the rest of them saw it was full of white objects and a glass bottle. Withdrawing the bottle and unceremoniously shoving the bag into Adrian's hands ("Toilet paper! Do I look like a dang charwoman to you?"), the boy unstopped his prize. Paddy sniffed cautiously. Whiskey, and not cheap stuff either.

"What gives, Kev?" Paddy asked with a grin. "Raid the old man's liquor cabinet or something?"

"He won't miss it," Kevin Earhart smirked. "Come on guys, first round of drinks are on me. The rest are on Pads."

With Kev being the generous type, everyone had had a hearty swig or two, or even three. By the time Hamilton Drive ended at Lafayette Road, none of them were either walking or thinking straight, and several trees had suspicious white streamers caught in their branches.

And then they came across the man. Nothing unusual about _him_, really, except his clothes were rumpled and he looked like he hadn't shaved in a few days. He was also humming 'Mary Had A Little Lamb', leading the boys to write him off as a partygoer from the Collins' house on Birchmount Street who had had too much to drink.

Of course, the fact that they too had gone overboard in the drinks department completely slipped their minds. When they were about five yards apart, one of the boys swiped at his lips, laughed drunkenly, and yelled out, "Coo! Lookit tha' alkie!" This prompted another of the group to point at the humming fellow and blurt out, "Had a bit? Ha ha ha!"

"Oy, y'hear that? Must be a baby, with that song!"

"Ha ha ha! Only a baby would be tha' pissed!"

Knowing that he was being targeted (although he was not sure why), the crazy man made an enraged sound, followed by a bellow of "Meanies!" and barrelled into the gaggle of offending boys, swinging his fists wildly.

"Lookit, he can't even hit right! Ha ha ha ha!"

"Aw, is the widdle baby gonna cry?"

"My granny can hit better than that! S'not gonna help, you know!"

It might have ended at that, but the boys also really didn't know when to shut up, stop laughing, or get out of the way.

----------------------------------------------------------

"Run away! Run away!"

Chanting the words like a mantra, a certain Irish teenager stumbled and scrambled down Lafayette Road out of the residential area, his friends trailing him, the madman chasing them every step of the way. Of his companions, Patrick O'Malley was perhaps the most sober. At any rate, he was the one leading the rest and the only one who really remembered what happened once his hangover wore off three days later.

If his friends had no head for drink, then Paddy O'Malley had no head for directions. He simply ran, led the group of panicking freshmen past the dry cleaners and the malt shop, took a right, and continued for another ten yards before running into a 20-foot high chain link fence. Here Eric Pritchard made a valiant attempt to scale the obstacle, but due to his intoxicated state, he barely made it halfway before he crashed back to Earth.

This left the boys trapped in an alley with the fence at their back and the very angry, very dangerous madman who they had provoked closing in. Somebody threw the now-empty whiskey bottle at the approaching assailant. Poor aim meant the bottle smashed on the ground a few feet short of the target. In addition to being crazy and furious, the lunatic was now armed with a large shard of glass.

Paddy O'Malley prayed for a way out of this mess. "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want, have mercy on us. Save us, Lord. I promise I'll study harder. I won't tease my sisters! I'll start staying awake in church on Sundays!"

But it was only when he mentally promised to give up drinking that the super arrived.

At any other time, Paddy would have been annoyed to no end about God and Fate and what-have-you. As it was, he was too busy cheering with the rest to care much about becoming a teetotaller.

----------------------------------------------------------

His name was Tradewind, newest of the registered supers in the Megalopolis area. Henry Grier had called him up personally, and though he'd already dealt with the occasional bit of local crime, this was the first time Tradewind had ever been assigned a mission by the NSA. Even without the directions Grier had supplied him with, Tradewind would have had few problems finding his target – all he had to do was follow the sounds of yelling in an otherwise quiet commercial area.

The first thing he saw was the hospital escapee, but not as the super had expected.

"Meanies!" the man shouted repeatedly, waving a shard of glass. "Stupid, loud _meanies_! I don't like you!"

Tradewind made his way towards the infantile man, taking note of the fact that the alley sloped down and ended at a chain-link fence. Behind the fence was the state forest, but huddled before the barrier were six chalk-faced individuals. One of them saw the super and yelled, "Oh, thank you God!" Startled, the lunatic turned but did not relinquish his hold on the broken bottle.

"Stay where you are," Tradewind ordered, his words meant for both the madman and the prep school teens. The cheering boys by the fence weren't about to disobey; absolutely none of them had any intention of going near the loony until it was perfectly safe to do so.

The madman tightened his grip on his makeshift weapon and cried, "They were being mean to me! Called me names! All I wanted was to play with Johnny, but the nice lady said he'd gone fishing! Why can't you all go away?" he screamed, approaching the super.

Knowing that using his powers would only agitate the loony further, Tradewind held firm with the diplomacy. "Put down the bottle."

"What's he doing?" Adrian whispered. Paddy only stared in shocked fascination.

The madman took another step and lifted the glass shard, razor-sharp edge gleaming. Tradewind's face hardened.

"You're in big trouble there! Do you hear me? I'm very, very cross with you! Now, _put that bottle _DOWN!"

The lunatic stopped, upraised hand with the glass shaking slightly. One moment passed, then two, and on the third the hand fell back down, the glass sliding from nerveless fingers to the pavestones, the man himself lowering his head and shuffling away.

A couple of the boys at the fence gave high-pitched laughs of pure relief, and Tradewind grinned broadly. "Didn't think it would work on him, but I'm sure glad it did!" he called to the teens.

The madman, unfortunately, overheard Tradewind's remark. Snarling, he turned and sprinted back at a startling speed. Tradewind ran to intercept the man, thinking he was going for the teenagers. Instead the loony darted round him, towards a large dumpster sitting in the alley. Normally the dumpster was used to store trash and refuse from the malt shop. The madman had other ideas, running full-tilt and shoving the dumpster as hard as he could. Tradewind yelled and tackle the man, sending them both to the ground, but the wheels of the dumpster had already been set in motion. There was no doubt as to the outcome – gravity and the incline of the alley would do the rest.

Paddy and his friends screamed. Several fainted in anticipation of a quick and painless death. Tradewind, pinning the thrashing madman down, could only watch as the dumpster picked up speed and closed the distance. He wouldn't make it in time.

Someone else could.

----------------------------------------------------------

Keeping to the trees, Enid had followed the boys as best as she could, losing them around the Lafayette Road and High Street intersection. Finally finding them again in the alley by Millingdale's Ice Cream and Malt Shop, she was brought up short upon seeing a young man in mask and costume defusing the situation. Obviously a new super, as Enid had never seen him before. His voice, though, was triggering faint recollections of school – was he a classmate?

Friend or just another local rich kid, it didn't matter. He'd gotten there first, and had the situation well in hand. Not wanting to step in on his territory, Enid had stayed in the forest. She'd been watching, waiting to see if she'd be needed.

And now was her chance.

Enid dove down, placed herself between the speeding dumpster and screaming teenagers, held out her hands and braced for impact.

There was a loud THUD, and her feet slid backwards a few inches into the concrete, but there was no further movement, she wasn't a pancake, and the lone classmate conscious wasn't screaming in terror.

Rather, Paddy O'Malley and the super were both staring at her, Paddy with something akin to awe and the super with utter consternation.

"Do you mind?" he asked, annoyed. Darn it all, but this was his save! Grier had placed the call, and ol' Henry hadn't said anything about backup!

"Would you rather they get flattened?" Enid snapped from behind the metal container.

"Well, no—"

"Then stop him from getting away!"

Tradewind quickly reached out and grabbed the crawling madman by the back of his shirt. Enid turned to the boys, only one of who were still standing.

"Good sweet Mike, it's Magdalene May!" Paddy screamed, his alcohol consumption and adrenaline rush combining and causing him to panic. "I'm too young to die!"

_'Magdalene May?'_ Enid thought, staring at Paddy and then down at herself. With her grandmother's wedding whites soiled and torn beyond all repair, her dishevelled coiffure, a couple of bloody cuts and an askew hat, Enid grimaced at the picture she must make. Said to appear only before youths destined to meet an early grave, no wonder Paddy thought her to be the legendary ghost of Magdalene Cemetery – Enid matched the reports of the spectre's appearance to a tee.

By then, Paddy had sunk to the ground and curled up in a quavering, huddling ball that whimpered when Enid meant to move closer. Giving the O'Malley up for a lost cause, Enid turned to the new super.

"You got him?" she asked, approaching him.

Tradewind, holding the madman in a full nelson, glanced at her with a wary expression. "I suppose," he said dubiously, trying to peer at Enid's face through the netting of her hat. Enid ducked her head, and he frowned. "Um, you're not really a ghost like that Paddy kid there said, are you?"

"It's _Patrick,_" came a dismal mumble, the boy quickly returning into his cowering shell afterwards.

"Whatever, Paddy," Tradewind answered.

Enid smiled slightly. "Well, ghosts don't bleed," she replied, showing the scrape on her arm which still had little beads of scarlet welling up. "I'm human, not to worry."

"Good!" Tradewind said in obvious relief.

Enid raised an eyebrow. "Not afraid of the dead, are you?"

The super looked slightly abashed. "Ah, how should I put it... the living I can handle, but I don't do ghosts and zombies and poltergeists. They can all stay on their side of the mortal plane, and if they do decide to drop by, call an exorcist. Please. And nice costume, by the way, great undead look."

Enid couldn't help but laugh. "Wasn't meant to be like that, but thanks anyway! You have a name?"

"Tradewind," he responded, about to say more, but lost his train of thought when sirens began to arrive. "Took them long enough! You gonna stick around, get this guy into custody?"

"I don't think so, no. You can take all the credit, I need to get going anyway."

"Sorry, what was that?" he said, turning around. There was the dumpster and half a dozen drunk kids, but no sign of the apparition in white. As the ambulance and patrol cars pulled into the lot, Tradewind shrugged and prepared to hand the loony over.

"Have it your way, then," he murmured. "Looks like I'll see you around campus, 'Magdalene May'."

----------------------------------------------------------

Henry Grier was not fond of phone duty, but the NSA paid him good money for his services and Grier wasn't about to cheat his employers no matter how much of a jerk the top brass – namely Regional Director Andrews – was. (Besides, in drawing straws between himself, Daniel Pollard and Robin Spencer, it was Harry who'd gotten the short stick. Last time _he'd_ ever pick first, statistics be damned.)

That didn't mean his mood was any better when that familiar annoying ring sounded, and it downright curdled on seeing who was calling. Nearly two months of surveillance and every week came notice on the Gwynns girl's 'powers'. This was what inadequate funding got anyone – a short-staffed agency and reliance on a rookie who couldn't tell the difference between a genuine sighting and a bird migration even if it hit him between the eyes. Had the original information on Miss Gwynns come from anyone else, Grier would have dropped the lead ages ago.

Good thing Plasmabolt, despite all her perceived faults, was reliable. There was just something about her... but Harry would never admit his attraction to another living soul. NSA operatives were to act as informants and couriers to the supers; relationships ran from tyrannical bosses at worst to good friends at best, and nothing further. Somewhere in the handbook was a rule: 'though interpersonal relationships are permitted, those of an intimate nature between supers and agents are strictly prohibited'. Being a super was a risky business, and everyone was supposed to know that. If he lost Sylvia...

But she wasn't even his, now was she?

The ringing of his phone was persistent, and Harry finally grabbed the receiver. "If this isn't an insanely beautiful woman, I'm hanging up."

"Sir," came the excited voice of Max Whitby the rookie, "the beacons are lit! For real this time! I saw her, sir, I saw her, and so did Tradewind – and he wants to know what the heck is going on, by the way."

Grier sat up, fully alert. "Tell him that could be one of his future colleagues. Are the girl's parents still out?"

"Yes sir. The party at the Convention Center downtown is set to last until midnight."

"Fantastic. Debrief Tradewind, I'm going to have a talk with Miss Gwynns."

"Understood, and good luck sir." Max said.

"Thanks, Max," said Harry, disconnecting the call and placing another one to Dan Pollard for backup. Pollard was more than happy to assist, anything to get out of the house – Mrs. Pollard was pregnant and the long-anticipated infamous mood swings had kicked in with a vengeance.

Harry didn't really think he'd need the backup to deal with Miss Gwynns. But then, they'd thought that way with Helen soon-to-be-Parr. The future Elastigirl had mistaken the NSA agent sent to her for a burglar or peeping Tom, and before the agent could explain, she had memorably thrown the man out the window of her Metroville flat. (Her apartment was on the twenty-second floor.)

Sure, the guy had a window cleaner's platform two stories down break his fall, but that was beside the _point_. Harry Grier was not about to take any chances.

**To be continued...**

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A/N: Since quite a few people were asking, I figured I might as well put this in:

During the opening part of this chapter, Chief Robson mentions "Brinks". This is a reference to the real-life heist known as the Great Brink's Robbery, where in 1950 a nine-member gang robbed the Brink's Building in Boston, Massachusetts, and managed to walk out with over $2.7 million. (For anyone interested, in today's terms the Brinks loot would be worth the equivalent of just over $21 million, and most of it was never recovered despite eight members of the gang being arrested - the last was already dead by that time.) The story takes place in 1952; it's fairly likely that Robson and Grier would remember the Brinks theft, as at the time it occured it was the largest robbery ever in the history of the United States and newspapers billed it as the 'crime of the century'.

In other news, I'm apparently supposed to put this in at least once, and haven't so far, and don't want to risk the wrath of the admins—

Disclaimer: I'm practically broke at the moment, so I don't think that such financial conditions would indicate that I would own something as successful as _The Incredibles_, or Disney/Pixar, or Brad Bird's brain. If I did, I can guarantee that I would have tons of money in savings and stuff, and that I'd be paying a whole lot in taxes.


	7. Tis The Season

**Flying High  
****Chapter 7 – 'Tis The Season  
****By: CountessMorgana  
**----------------------------------------------------------

**The daughter of Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl was not the first high-school student to be a super, and she certainly wasn't the first teenager to have a crush on a boy. Before Violet Parr and Tony Rydinger, before the ban on supers, before the Glory Days ended, there was Stratogale and Macroburst. And their story isn't quite as typical as one would expect.**

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_Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road.  
Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to do.  
So make the best of this test, and don't ask why.  
It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time. _

It's something unpredictable, but in the end is right.  
I hope you had the time of your life.

**Green Day, "Good Riddance (Time Of Your Life)"**

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**31 October 1952: Gwynns Residence, 143 Greenspan Road**

_"Miss Enid Gwynns?" The two men outside her door were garbed in business suits._ _The one who spoke did so in a formal, yet direct manner. Enid had left the chain on the door just in case, and answered cautiously; "Yes."_

_The first man inclined his head. "Miss Gwynns, my name is Henry Grier and this is my associate Daniel Pollard. We're from the National Supers Agency, overseeing metahuman activities throughout the United States." It sounded like a rehearsed speech (and for all Enid knew it probably was.) The man handed over a pair of thin leather wallets embossed with the NSA logo. The photographs inside matched the faces of the two men, and everything else – authorization, signatures, the gold stamped NSA seal and its holographic double – seemed authentic._

_Enid closed her eyes._ 'Tradewind. It had to be.'

_"I suppose I've just been found out?"_ _she asked, returning the IDs._

_"Not quite,"_ _said Henry Grier. "We've actually had you under surveillance for some time now."_

_"'Some time'?"_

_"Since early September." There was a pause, Enid a bit dazed from this bit of news. "Ah, Miss Gwynns, if we could—"_

_"Of course." Enid quickly unlatched the door._ _"Come on in."_

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**19 December 1952: Riverview Heights Preparatory School**

_Tick... tock... tick... tock... tick..._

It was the last day of examinations for the fall term, and the last assessment that the freshmen of Riverview Heights' upper school had to undertake was English. Bernie Kropp had, in his usual unsubtle fashion, proclaimed several times that his exam would be every bit as tough as his class was probably imagining. And in this respect Kropp did not disappoint, much to the dismay of the students foolish enough to assume he'd only been joking.

Two hours had been allotted for the exam, and two hours only. One hundred and twenty precious minutes to analyze and answer three essay questions – no multiple choice or short answer questions, not even a 'True or False' segment, which many had hoped for.

Enid Gwynns stared blankly at the list of questions before her, lines of sharp black typewritten text swirling around, only incoherent fragments penetrating her thoughts. She'd studied for this, spent countless late nights reading, and had thought she was prepared. Then Fate had waltzed in and wiped her mind clean as a blank slate, leaving Enid to scramble for answers best as she could.

At least she wasn't the only person who was wasting time in one form or another. She glanced to the right, where Adrian Harper sat in a stupor dribbling all over his second essay answer, making the black ink of his words run into indecipherable blotches of dark grey (the odds were good that Mr. Kropp would take one look at the state of Adrian's paper, not bother to work any of it out, and mark a big red 'F' at the top before moving on). Peering over Adrian's sleeping head to the end of the row, Enid spotted Mackenzie Kintail, his brows creased in a frown, mouth moving silently, and usually neatly combed hair badly mussed. Enid barely had time to wonder why when Mackenzie grimaced and unconsciously raked a hair through his hair – a nervous habit, more likely than not.

Speaking of which, up in the front row sat Frank Amery, who had a tendency to tap his forehead with the end of his pen in times of stress. Only now Frank was absentmindedly tapping the pen's point against his skull, leaving a pattern that by all appearances resembled Morse code written in Braille. Tom Pecker looked ready to tear something or someone apart from sheer frustration, a notion seemingly shared by Eric Pritchard, and Danny Jefferson, and Jimmy Rockford, and – well, nearly all the boys in the room, really. Gemma Modern looked close to tears, and Patrick O'Malley actually _was_ in tears.

_Tick... tock... tick... tock... tick..._

----------------------------------------------------------

**Six Weeks Previously**

_The two NSA agents – Grier and Pollard – seated themselves in the sitting room's armchairs while Enid took the sofa after a mad dash to the kitchen for tea-making utensils. Years of living with a mother who was a major figure in Megalopolis society meant Enid had (somewhat unwillingly) developed the skills of a good hostess. When Pollard had settled down with a glass of brandy, Grier cleared his throat and looked at Enid with what he hoped was a reassuring smile._

_"Miss Gwynns, we understand it's been a rather trying evening for you, so I'll be concise. Would you consider joining the National Supers Agency?"_

_Outwardly, Enid instantly froze with an expression of wide-eyed shock. Inside, thoughts were whizzing about in her head, clashing and warring with each other, processed at hyper-speed. _

'Oh. My. Gosh. This is it! This is the chance I've been waiting for!'

_It had risks, to be sure._

'So does everything in life.'

_And what if her parents found out?_

'They don't need to know. I spend so much time out of the house already they'll probably chalk it up to more bird watching.'

_She was still a minor._

'So are Tradewind and Macroburst. Nobody's out to stop them.'

_Didn't she already have a prospective career ahead of her?_

'Career? Yeah, as if etiquette lessons, Home Ec classes, finishing school, cotillions and society rounds all for a brilliant marriage and being a housewife count as a darn career! Be just like my mother and smile, simper, show off the kitchen, hang on to a husband's arm at parties and wear frilly dresses and produce children of good breeding to start the whole damn cycle over again. And that's exactly what's waiting for me down the road – I want to do something more!'

_Harry stared at Miss Gwynns with increasing worry. She hadn't said anything for a few minutes now, and with her pupils dilated in fact seemed to be lost in her own world. Her breathing had started to increase too – short sharp gasps that didn't sound at all good. He glanced at Dan, who had set down his brandy glass and looked equally alarmed. Most of the supers to whom the NSA had approached with offers to join the ranks had initial reactions of surprise, caution, and occasionally incredulousness and paranoia. Cases of outright hostilities (like Elastigirl) and extreme shock were rare, but it seemed Miss Gwynns was going to be categorized into the latter._

_"Maybe you were too concise back there, Grier," Dan said nervously. "Looks like textbook hyperventilation."_

_"I can_ see _that, Pollard."_

_"Well we can't just sit here!" Dan Pollard began to fret. "There's got to be a paper bag somewhere she can breathe into—"_

_"Shut up. Miss Gwynns?" Harry said urgently. "Miss Gwynns, please, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down. Take a deep breath, just relax, you don't have to answer right away. If you want some time to think it over, take as long as you need. There's no rush."_

'Wait? What's there to wait?'

_"I don't need to wait." Enid sat up, eyes clear. "I'll do it."_

----------------------------------------------------------

Enid was soon aware of someone watching her. Breaking out of her reverie, she saw Kropp glowering from his seat, clearly angry she had the nerve to daydream during his exam. The message was clear – focus or flunk.

Oh God... Think. What did she remember about _The Merchant of Venice_? Darn Shakespeare, now she couldn't recall a thing! Kropp had turned away to glare at someone in the front row, so Enid found herself glancing at her incomplete exam again.

_Tick... tock... tick... tock... Skeeeer-ink!_

Anyone in the exam hall still awake raised their heads or twisted about in their seats to see Mackenzie Kintail standing awkwardly, with his chair pushed back. With an embarrassed shrug that passed for a silent apology, he gathered his exam papers in one hand and made his way to Kropp's desk. The teacher, who had heard Mackenzie's chair squawk just as well as anyone else, did not acknowledge him.

A discomforting moment or two passed. "Ah, Mr. Kropp—"

"I told you kids at the beginning of this exam, you would not be getting help from me," Kropp said finally, eyes still closed as he sat back in his chair.

At this, Mackenzie stared. "Actually—"

"You would not be getting help, because I expected you to study. You were expected to study because I know you can't expect to lead cushy lives all your livelong days."

Mackenzie didn't reply, only half-turning with an incredulous expression to meet the stares of his fifty-odd classmates, most of who were looking on with sympathy.

"I don't need help, sir." Enid thought she heard a small note of sarcasm in that mandatory title of respect.

"You don't?" Briefly taken aback by this, Kropp immediately retorted, "Well, if that's the case, you can go sit back down anyway since washroom breaks are prohi—"

"I'm done."

"Beg your pardon?" Kropp asked, surprised.

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, Mackenzie elaborated and enunciated clearly: "I've finished your exam and I'm handing it in."

Kropp almost tore the papers from Mackenzie's head and carefully scrutinized each page in turn. Finally he fixed Mackenzie with a baleful expression. "Fine, you're done. Pack your bag and leave the exam hall immediately. Any attempts to interact with your classmates on your way out and I'll be flunking you all."

Mackenzie shrugged, but he made a hasty exit nonetheless.

----------------------------------------------------------

_Now that she'd agreed, Grier and Pollard were running over the particulars._

_"We offer all of our people the full health package, including dental," Grier said. "Should you happen to spend any of your own funds on equipment, travel, or any other super-related essentials, your expenses will be completely reimbursed."_

_"So long as you remember to save your bills," Pollard added helpfully._

_"We'll also require you to undergo four to six weeks of basic training. It doesn't have to be done all at once, but most supers find it easier to get it over with in one go. And then there's managing your powers, but from what we've seen and heard you've got a pretty good handle on them." _

_"Will I have to tell my parents?" Enid blurted out._

_Dan glanced at Harry. "Not if you don't want to. It'd be advisable, in case accidents happen and we need to notify a next of kin. But you_ are _underage, Miss Gwynn_s_, and I won't deny that those of our supers who are or did work for us before turning sixteen had explicit permission from their parents or guardians." Dan shrugged. "Once they turned sixteen, of course, it was a different story – and even then the parents were usually aware of the situation and the risks it entailed."_

_"You don't think your parents will react well to this if you told them, do you?" Harry asked quietly._

_Enid immediately thought of what she knew of Alan and Rebecca Gwynns. "No. Not in the slightest."_

_"How severe a reaction are we talking about here? Just think of the most feasible worst-case scenario."_

_Enid gave a humorless smile, one that didn't suit her face at all and chilled the men when they saw it. "They'll denounce me, disown me, and kick me out in that order. I'm supposed to be a showcase of New England high society wealth and privilege, and they sure as heck didn't spend all those years of hard work and keeping up appearances only to have their daughter turn into a vigilante."_

_Harry was concerned. "Well, if worse come to worst, we could arrange alternate living arrangements for you."_

_"Hang on Harry." Dan Pollard broke in. "Her father's a lawyer, and I've read up on what we know on the family. Trust me, he'll find some way to take this to court."_

_"Maybe not," said Enid. "It'd really hurt Mom and Dad's social position if something like that were to be made public. They'll go to any lengths to make sure of saving face and keeping everything quiet before the lawsuits start."_

_"And if they do, we have some of America's best legal minds on the NSA payroll." A thought occurred to Harry. "Miss Gwynns, how old are you?"_

_"I'll be fifteen on November 20th." Enid's face fell. "Looks like I'll have to tell them."_

_"Not necessarily," Harry smiled. "I think we can work around the rules here. Miss Gwynns, would you mind an extended training period? It's not official super business per se, but it will require some, uh, field work under NSA guidance. And once you turn sixteen we'll have you ready."_

_Enid was silent for a moment, a smile of her own growing. "That could work."_

_Agent Pollard stared from Enid to Harry in confusion. "What are you two talking about? Someone fill me in, please!"_

----------------------------------------------------------

Half an hour later, Enid handed in her own exam, gathered her things, and left the stifling atmosphere of the exam hall.

She was surprised to see the door open for her on the way, and even more so on seeing Riverview Heights vice-principal Richard Thames outside acting as the doorman. In the hallway, an unidentifiable boy lay stretched out full length on one of the hallway benches, his snoring muffled from the hat covering his face. The only two armchairs were likewise taken by the smartest girl in class, Lauren Vanier, who'd dosed off sitting in one and using the other as a footrest and bag deposit. Mackenzie Kintail lounged on the second bench reading a book. He looked up when the door closed behind her.

"'Lo, Gwynns."

"What are you still doing here?" Enid instantly regretted the abrupt tone when Lauren shifted in her sleep and added hastily, "I mean, shouldn't you have gone home already? It's not school policy to force people to stay if they finish early! Unless they wanted to keep you in because of some snowstorm—" Here Enid quickly looked outside the windows to confirm inclement weather was not the case, and Mackenzie did too.

"Apparently not," he replied wryly. "And as to school policy, Branksome changed her mind on that one fairly recently. It's why Mr. Thames is standing guard, to 'ensure proper standards of academic honesty are upheld'." Enid bit her lip to stop from giggling at Mackenzie's near-perfect imitation of the principal's strong Boston accent.

"So what happened?" Enid asked, moving towards the bench, Mackenzie quickly removing his feet to allow her to sit.

"Yesterday afternoon, during the senior class's calculus final, some people got their friends to scrawl down formulas and other tips on whitewashed cardboard and show them through the lecture hall windows behind the teacher's desk. It wasn't until ten minutes before the exam finished that the teacher on duty realized what was going on. Hence, the calculus final's been rewritten and rescheduled, not only is there the change in policy but also in location."

"I wondered about that," said Enid. The new exam hall had been windowless and confining, even for her. "Felt like I was in a box."

"Don't I know it," her classmate muttered. "Do you know what's been up with O'Malley these days? I was leaving the hall, and it looked like he'd cracked."

"Bernie Kropp would drive anyone crazy," Enid retorted. Long past tears when Frank Amery had finished ten minutes before, Paddy by Enid's time of departure looked as though he had given up, having buried his face in his hands with shoulders visibly shaking.

Poor Paddy, Enid thought guiltily, as the Halloween encounter appeared to have left the youngest O'Malley permanently scarred for life. Genuinely believing he had run into Magdalene May and that his days were henceforth numbered, Paddy no longer _walked_ around school so much as he _skulked_, and was always on the lookout for deranged axe murderers lurking around corners or some such imaginary threat.

Nowhere was this made more apparent to Enid than midway through November, when the freshman boys' gym class was interrupted when a careless comment about the local ghost had made Paddy panic. It had taken the combined efforts of Coach Laurence, Principal Branksome, a school ladder, and half an hour of cajoling before Paddy had consented to climbing down from the basketball hoop. The corners of Enid's mouth twitched upwards; guilt aside, the sight of Paddy stuck up there had been rather funny, and it would be a long time before Patrick could ever live that one down.

"Penny for your thoughts," Mackenzie said, noticing her expression.

"They're not worth it. Where's Amery?"

"Trying to scrub the ink off his forehead."

"Good luck with that!"

"That's what I said. I'll have to hitch a ride with him since my bike hit an ice patch last week." Enid winced, and Mackie nodded. "Insurance agreed to pay for damages, though." There was a brief pause. "I don't suppose you or Modern need help getting home?"

"Oh, no, we're fine. Gemma's neighbour agreed to pick us up."

"Suit yourself," Mackenzie shrugged, going back to his book.

They settled into a companionable silence, broken a minute later when Frank Amery returned from the boys' restroom with faint traces of grey still visible on his head. The resulting jokes and teasing at Frank's expense occupied the three students until the bell rang, ending the exam and dismissing all the freshmen for the Christmas break.

----------------------------------------------------------

"Oh my GOSH! Have you ever seen anything so sweet?"

"He's SOOOOO cute!! I think I'm in love!"

"Look at those big blue eyes!"

"Who's the cutest lil' guy on the block? Yes oooo are, oh yes oooo are!"

"Oh, oh! He's got those golden curls! Awwwww, he's a perfect little angel!"

"Great, now _I_ want a little brother! Gemma, you're soooo lucky!"

Standing well away from the knot of sappy-faced girls clustered by the shotgun window of the sedan, said older sister smiled and nodded graciously. Once the admirer went back to sighing over the baby of her affections the smile slipped off Gemma's face and was replaced with a vexed frown.

"Enid, you're my best friend, tell me the truth. Are we the only ones here not reduced to cooing inanely over the kid?"

There was no reply.

"Enid? Hello? Any time before the Soviets invade would be nice."

"Sorry." Enid reluctantly tore her eyes away from Mackenzie Kintail, who was just passing. "You're Artie's sister, Gem. It doesn't count if you see him all the time! Of course, I'm an only child, so I can't talk..."

"Ah, well then as a proud older sibling, I'll fill you in on the particulars of being a big sister," said Gemma as the two friends began to briskly elbow their way through the crowd of fellow students. "Babies cry all the time, can't be left on their own for a moment, and are a complete pain to clean up after. Messes are atrocious, feeding times resemble war zones, and post-bottle burps have significant chances of turning into barfing incidents that ruin your new clothes. And diaper changing, yeeuch! Don't get me started on the smell."

Enid could only laugh at the face Gemma pulled. "You poor thing, you sound like his mother."

Gemma glared at her friend. "Please, I'm nobody's mother. Sure feel like it, though."

"Doesn't your grandma help?"

"With my parents off God-knows-where with the jet set I'm stuck taking full time care of the little guy. And between you and me, my grandma's not all there, you know?"

"Afternoon ladies!" An affable, slightly dishevelled gentleman in his late twenties was sticking his head out of the driver's window.

"Dr. Hudson!" Gemma was surprised.

The driver shook his head sadly. "Now Gemma, how many times have I asked you to call me Scott?"

"Force of habit, Dr. Hud– Scott." Gemma gave an embarrassed smile. "This is my friend, Enid Gwynns. Enid, this is Dr. Scott Hudson, only the best paediatrician in Bayside."

Scott laughed. "You flatter me, Gemma. Miss Gwynns, it's a honor to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise, Doctor."

"If you don't mind my asking, Miss Gwynns, are you any relation to Councillor Richard Gwynn?"

It wasn't an unusual question, as Sherwood County's councillor not only shared a similar name but bore a superficial resemblance to Enid's father. "No, not that I know of. My father's a city attorney, but he's never shown much interest in politics."

Scott eyed her keenly. "What about your mother?"

Gemma's annoyed expression caught Enid's eye, the dark haired girl immediately understanding Scott was only watching out for her friend's welfare. Enid smiled as she shucked off her schoolbag and slid into the car's backseat. "My mother prefers her charity and society work. She's on the executive board of the local DAR and CDA chapters." Enid frowned slightly. "Though she's been out a fair bit more than usual, even for the season..."

"Sorry? Didn't hear that last part."

"Oh, nothing. Since both my parents are busy, Gem invited me over to debate Christmas presents, last-minute gift options, and ways to avoid asphyxiation in the mall crowds, poor us."

Checking to make sure Arthur was secure, Scott raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me. Put off your Christmas shopping, have you?"

"If you must know, then yes. Again. And no asking of what your presents are, because I'm not telling!" said Gemma, climbing in after shooing away Arthur's fan club. "I'm surprised you're here with your practice and all, Scott. Guess that means Guy couldn't make it then?"

Scott's hand paused on its way to the ignition. "'Fraid so. Something came up," he said lightly, though it sounded forced. "And even I need a lunch break! Seatbelts on and homeward bound in that order, ladies – I saw that Gemma, don't even try to deny it, I know what I saw."

"Saw what?" Gemma asked, all innocence.

"I believe my kids call it the 'Gooey Face'. The one you use on Arthur when you think no-one's looking and can get away with showing affection without losing face on the unappreciative older sibling act."

Enid snorted. "Awwwww, Gemma, you do care!"

"I. Do. Not." Gemma said through clenched teeth.

"Yes you do."

"Do not."

"Do too."

Eyes on the road but ears on the girls, Scott sensed this might continue for some time.

He wasn't wrong.

"Do not."

"Do too."

"Do not."

"Do not."

"Do t—" Gemma broke off in horror. "Oh, cripes."

Enid smiled beatifically, while Scott snickered in a very unprofessional way. Baby Arthur gurgled, oblivious.

Gemma slouched further down into her seat. "Fine, fine, so the brat isn't a holy terror all the time. Happy now?"

"That'll do, Gemma. That'll do."

----------------------------------------------------------

Chief Joseph Timothy Robson of the Megalopolis police force was no Albert Einstein, but he hadn't gotten to where he was now by being an idiot. Overconfidence had been the downfall of many of his predecessors, and Robson would be darned if he let that happen to him. Better to be safe than sorry, his old man had always said, and in most cases Robson took the maxim to heart.

The above was doubly so in the case of supervillains. Robson had set out a stringent list of protocols to be followed with the apprehended criminals, taking it as far as he could go without blatantly infringing on any civil rights. These had included solitary confinement, around-the-clock watch, thorough inspection of any and all visitors including legal counsel, and meetings with said visitors in guarded rooms with bulletproof glass screens separating prisoner and guests. All eating utensils were plastic and dishes were prepared so that everything could be eaten with a spoon. The last chief prior to Robson had allowed metal utensils, specifically forks – a stupid idea, but not even Robson had expected the Tormentor to get out as far as he did and incapacitate as many as he did armed only with that fork before police gunfire and a well-timed blast from Dynaguy had finished the Tormentor off. There were headstones in Trinity Churchyard with the names of Sergeant Paul Elliot and Constable Derrick Irvin on it; both stabbed to the heart, they had ended up as the only fatalities of that incident.

For now, the rest of the force was content to follow Robson's lead. Those of the opinion his methods were excessive to the point of paranoid were usually cried down by angry citizens who vocally disagreed. In another five years or so, when Sergeant Elliot and Constable Irvin's deaths had faded from recent memory, the tide would turn again. But for the time being Robson was going to make every last effort to ensure none of his people died in their own stations at their posts for lack of preventive measures.

Outside the stations, their lives were up to chance and the grace of God.

----------------------------------------------------------

Dominique St. Clair, alias Bomb Voyage, had long ago come to a definite conclusion:

Whatever disdain he'd ever had for the English, he hated their American cousins even more.

Hence his preference to speak French and only in French among the police and heroes of America, generated partly out of spite, and mostly because it was rather amusing to see the various upholders of law and justice, costumed or uniformed, being forced to pantomime everything until a proficient translator could be located and brought in (though lately even _that_ had lost its fun, with those two mind-reading cuckolds being able to understand every insult he slung at them, and that English child responding with language that had Bomb Voyage seething at the impunity).

Fortunately, the wealthy and elite of America were far easier and plentiful targets than their British friends, who, taking the full brunt of Hitler's war machine, were still on rationing even now. Those few fortunate enough to come through the wars and the aftermath with their fortunes secure were either quick to upgrade already impressive security measures to protect their treasures or, having sold off their valuables to pay the state, had nothing truly valuable enough for Bomb Voyage to waste his time stealing.

Speaking of wasting time, there he'd been, sitting in an American jail cell for the last four months as the courts dragged on. No sooner than he'd been taken into custody did the bureaucracy kick in – being wanted on numerous charges in a number of states and half of Europe had its own advantages, with petitions for extradition coming from all sides and the resulting paperwork clogging up the legal channels. Perhaps the sole request that all the offended parties seemed to agree upon was the immediate transfer of the prisoner to an ultra-maximum security facility, and Chief Robson was forced to concur.

Thus Bomb Voyage's reason for travelling fully restrained in the middle of an armoured police van in the middle of an armoured convoy in the middle of the night. All the keys to the various locks had been sent on ahead earlier, and only upon their delivery and confirmation was Bomb Voyage hustled up out of his cell and into the van, where he sat, glaring at the two policemen clutching their sidearms. The policemen glared right back, both conveying without words that if he made even the slightest of wrong moves, neither would hesitate in shooting him.

It was around that moment that one of the tires on the van burst. The flat was almost immediately followed by the sounds of gunfire.

After two minutes of listening to what seemed to be a losing battle, Bomb Voyage's guards regarded him briefly before one struck him in the head with the butt of his pistol, rendering him unconscious before both jumped out to join the melee.

----------------------------------------------------------

Outside, the rest of the convoy was being systematically taken out by a gilded figure whose imperviousness to their bullets was rapidly causing alarm.

Avarice was not one to repeat mistakes; she'd deliberately aimed for the drivers and anyone riding shotgun first. The radios were next, and by that point she'd been forced to keep her shield up with one hand while blasting the police with the other. It was pure rotten luck the transport had happened on a night during the new moon, robbing her of a decent charge. She had to absorb light from the muzzle flashes to keep from depleting her reserves, a task made easier when one patrolman switched on the headlights of the rear car – Avarice promptly sent a laser in his direction, shattering the windshield in the process and knocking him out cold.

If there was one thing she preferred, it was keeping her victims alive. Granted, it took a little more time, but at least she wouldn't have to witness the blood and gore that usually came with Bomb Voyage's _modus operandi_.

Speaking of whom, a pair of armed police guards jumped out of the central van she was sure contained the infamous man. Both were young, and on espying her, they promptly opened fire.

_'You really should have learned from your friends, cretins.'_ Avarice thought, bringing up her shields again. When the two officers gaped in surprise, she dropped the field and quickly struck out with beams from both hands.

One cop went down, her aim perfect. The other yelped as the laser knocked his weapon from his hand. He fell back on his hands and seat, while the pistol spun in an arc overhead and hit the road between them at an angle. There was a flash and a loud report, and Avarice felt something small whizz past, leaving a sudden stinging pain at the base of her neck right above the clavicle. Bringing a hand up to the spot, her gold-gloved fingers came back smeared with red.

_"Maudit!"_ she exclaimed.

The last officer standing made a desperate and valiant attempt to reclaim the weapon by scrabbling over the road. Just as he was about to reach out and grab it, Avarice snarled and blasted him with a laser to the stomach that knocked him onto his back. The vest he wore took the worst of the damage, but the force of her attack left the man in a good deal of pain.

It didn't stop him from reaching out to his gun yet again. Avarice negated that when she slammed a booted foot first into his face and then onto his hand, pinning the appendage to the ground.

"Le sacrament qui était en calvaire a calissé dehors l'ostie en tabarnac..." she muttered violently, snapping her fingers. A bright sphere appeared, and glaring at the officer, she deliberately ground the heel of her boot into his hand, ignoring his cry of pain.

At that moment, a flash of light on gold caught her eye. She scowled, and peered closer at the hand pinned under her foot.

Scrutiny showed the gold in question to be a wedding band on the officer's fourth finger. The plain ring gleamed brightly, as yet untarnished from years of constant wear. It was obviously a recent acquisition.

Avarice merely stared at the ornament in silence. The officer stared up at her.

The odd stalemate broke when the sphere in Avarice's hand exploded into a light show so intense the officer's mind couldn't cope. He slumped, head dropping back down, catatonic.

----------------------------------------------------------

Bomb Voyage blinked as the steel floor of the van swam into view – and didn't stop moving.

"Où...?"

A throbbing pain in his head reminded him. Those two guards had struck him before jumping out to confront whoever had ambushed his convoy. Most likely he had a lump the size of _un oeuf_ up there... He reached up, gingerly poking at the swelling, and quickly pulled back when white-hot needles of agony shot through his nerves. Yeah, that one wasn't going away anytime soon.

But wait a moment. Hadn't he been cuffed, chained, trussed up to sit on that damn uncomfortable metal bench without the slightest bit of give? How, then, could he have the freedom to touch his head as he had? And what was that odd hissing and crackling sound? He shifted, made to get up.

_"It'd be better if you didn't,"_ a woman's voice advised in what he thought was French. Actually, he was sure it _was_ French, only pronounced so curiously that it was difficult to understand.

"Pourquoi?" he asked, craning his neck round carefully so the van would cease its spinning.

Ah. Yes, that _would_ be a good reason not to move.

The speaker had indeed been a woman, albeit one garbed in a form-fitting gold costume. The colour was far too gaudy even for his tastes, but the view was otherwise appealing.

Which lead to the main reason why moving would not be a good idea: sparks and smoke filled the air whilst the woman calmly cut through his fetters, most likely with some sort of welding tool. Had he moved when she told him not to, there would have been a very interesting scar to show the grandchildren. (Then again, six inches to the left and grandchildren would have been out of the question.)

Two minutes later, Bomb Voyage was smirking as he stretched his legs, the woman sitting back on the bench with a disdainful sniff.

"Écoutez!" she snapped, and continuing in French. _"In ten minutes a routine patrol will pass by on this lane, and the guards I attacked will be awakening soon. We must be gone from here by then."_

Bomb Voyage tilted his head with a quizzical frown. "Dix minutes? Êtes-vous certain?"

"Oui."

"Quel dommage," he muttered to himself. Then he turned to the woman. "Et d'où êtes-vous? Terre-Neuve, Québec, Louisiane? Ou peut-être vous êtes une Acadienne, hm? Votre accent prouve vous n'êtes pas Parisienne."

Exasperated, Avarice shook her head. "Votre accent suisse est à peine mieux!"

There was a long pause as the two villains warily eyed each other.

"Or we could speak English," Bomb Voyage said grudgingly.

Avarice shrugged. "Works for me."

----------------------------------------------------------

"Now, monsieur, don't think for a moment that I released you from here out of charity."

"Never did. I know this game," Bomb Voyage sneered. "My freedom in exchange for any foolish little favours you might need. Very well, state your terms."

"'Foolish little favours'? My dear monsieur, I don't need your glorified firecrackers. Far too loud and messy for my tastes, I can assure you, as well as impractical in my usual line of work."

Though outwardly calm, Dominique was incensed. He'd done freelance on rare occasions, arranging and building explosives for certain clients who had certain goals in mind and were willing to meet his price to ensure that objects or people disappeared without any other trace than a smouldering crater and sometimes not even that. One of the best demolitions experts the underworld had and this little _pute_ was insulting his entire profession!_ 'Damn provincial little horror! She dares?'_

"If you don't require my services, how on Earth you do intend to get past the security measures these Americans place everywhere?"

In response Avarice held out her hand. What looked like an intensely bright gold marble rolled down her palm to her fingertips, then lanced out in a thin, sharp beam that left a smoking black burn by Bomb Voyage's right foot.

The villain blinked. Well. That was… unexpected. He'd assumed she used gadgets and gimmicks like himself – but actual superpowers…

Oh, this was going to have those NSA fools up in arms.

"Megalopolis is one of the richest cities in the country. Plenty of wealthy, pompous, conceited fools with little regard for anything other than climbing the social ladder and making the rounds. They won't notice if a few things go missing." She gave a slight shrug. "Unfortunately, my targets conflict with yours. Artwork, house safes, and safe deposit boxes are my specialities—"

Bomb Voyage's eyes narrowed into dark slits. If she noticed, she made no sign, continuing,

"—and I'm afraid there simply isn't room for two of us in the same city."

"Your point, mademoiselle?" he hissed.

"I hear Metroville and Municiburg are quite nice this time of year," she said glibly.

"Indeed. Why don't you take advantage of the fine weather?"

"I have obligations that need to be dealt with in this city. You, on the other hand, have no unfinished business here." She paused. "Unless one counts your little run-in back in July with the Scrap Pack."

He snorted loudly. And here he was, completely unarmed and with no choice but to assent, lest he lose something of vital importance to the existence of his future children. Painfully. _'Merde.'_

"Those buffoons are a menace to _everyone_, regardless of what side of the law. I don't consider them worthy of notice." He studied her carefully and decided to change tack. "You shouldn't either, not with those skills."

An eyebrow rose. "Giving a rival advice?"

"Giving a _compatriot_ advice, mademoiselle. In this blasted country it isn't often I can have a civilised conversation in my preferred language – although your pronunciation could use some work. Not your fault, two centuries of living in the backwoods can't have done much to improve it."

"Snob," she accused. "Although I must admit, I was unsure whether or not you even spoke English."

He shrugged. "I'm perfectly capable of either language, mademoiselle. French simply annoys the _Amerloques_ more. And to be frank – I need a change of scenery." He stared at her hard as the faintest sounds of sirens approached and the policemen began to stir. "Prendre garde à les Anglais."

She heard the sirens too, and nodded. "I will take my leave of you, monsieur."

"As you wish, mademoiselle..." Bomb Voyage paused mid-step, considering. "Or should I say, 'madame'?"

Avarice's laser narrowly missed his head.

"... demoiselle it is then."

----------------------------------------------------------

**Riverview Suburb, Gwynns Household, 19 December 1952**

Enid Gwynns, for the third time that evening, fought the urge to pace around the sitting room or grab the kitchen phone and call the police to report a missing person.

Was she worried? Yes.

Her mother still hadn't come home.

All of the Gwynns had had engagements outside of the house for most of that day. Her father was busy with a new case at the firm (something about a tanker from a major American petroleum shipping company having run afoul of a luxury yacht containing the president and several CEOs of a rival European-based corporation. Enid hadn't pressed for details). He'd taken dinner with the other partners who'd been assigned to the case.

Enid herself had divided the afternoon between Gemma's house and the local shopping arcade after Scott insisted on driving the girls to and from their destinations (he refused to allow them on those buses with those crowds, and nor would he hear of them paying for a taxi either). It was perhaps a good thing that they'd taken up on Scott's offer; with the sheer number of packages that both girls ended up carrying from the mall, between them they would have filled half a bus and any cab driver would have charged extra for freight. Enid and Gemma had ended up ordering pizza from Marinara's and watching the 'I Love Lucy' marathon on TV along with Arthur, laughing hysterically throughout.

Mr. Gwynns arrived home at 8 pm, Enid and her many packages at 9. But Mrs. Gwynns had yet to return from her high tea with the Riverview-Arcadia chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution. To be blunt, she was over four hours late.

The clock started chiming midnight, and Enid mentally corrected that. _'Five hours late, then.'_

Twelve times the chimes rang, mingling with the snores from her father in the armchair opposite hers. He'd fallen asleep an hour ago; Enid couldn't help but wonder if she was the only person who even cared about anyone anymore around the house.

Five minutes past midnight, still no sign. Ten after; nothing happened.

At 12:15, Enid was dozing off in her armchair when her ears picked up the rumbling of an engine motor. It took the slam of a car door to assure her she wasn't just hearing things. Her father was still asleep and she knew nothing short of an earthquake would wake him now. Getting to her feet, stumbling slightly, Enid crossed to the window and pulled back the drapes.

Idling in front of their driveway was a car she'd never seen before. Through the gloom she espied the familiar floral print of her mother's dinner dress beneath the dark winter coat. Mrs. Gwynns was leaning forward to speak to the driver of the car, smiling and laughing; though Enid squinted, all she could ascertain was the driver was a man who had dark hair. After a minute or more, Mrs. Gwynns began make her way to the house. When she reached the front door and waved, the driver waved back, and only then did the car drive away. Smiling, Mrs. Gwynns turned back to the door – and spotted Enid sitting in the window with the drapes pushed back.

The smile vanished. By the time she'd stepped into the foyer as quietly as possible Enid was there waiting. It was easier for Enid; stocking feet were far less noisy than the pumps her mother wore.

"Mom?" Enid took a step forward. "What happened? Where've you been?"

Midway through removing her high-heeled shoes, Rebecca Thornton-Gwynns frowned at her daughter. "I believe I'm old enough not to have to submit a timetable of my activities for your approval."

The words hit Enid like a slap to the face. All of her worry and concern for her mother fizzled away like bubbles in champagne, and an explosion as the cork blew was imminent. Trying to head off her own temper, Enid said quickly, "It's just that you were a lot later than usual, and dad and I – we didn't know where you were."

"The meeting after tea ran later than I anticipated, that's all."

_Liar._ "Then who was that man?"

"A chaperone, ensuring we all got home safely."

_Lies, and lies again._ "I don't believe you."

Her mother's face was perfectly composed. A mask. "You're entitled to your opinion, dear, but tactfulness—"

It had been a long day. She was tired, she was cranky, and she'd had enough. Turning her back on her mother, Enid spoke over her shoulder.

"Dad's sleeping in the armchair over in the sitting room."

"Enid," her mother began.

"Don't know how you'll get him upstairs, so my best suggestion is just leave him there."

"Enid." Angrier now.

"English exam went fine, thanks for asking. Had a smashing time at Gemma's, by the way. I'm going to bed."

**_"Enid."_** Fighting the urge to scream blue murder, she turned around, equally composed.

"That man I was with..."

"Your chaperone?" Enid asked flippantly.

"Under no circumstances are you to mention him, what you saw, or our conversation tonight to your father." Rebecca Gwynns had begun hesitantly, but her voice soon became hard with authority. "Do you understand?"

Rebecca's daughter stared, and then lowered her gaze. "Yes mom."

Mrs. Gwynns appraised her daughter. What she saw must have met with her approval.

"Good girl," she said, gently pecking her on the cheek. "Now off to bed with you, it's late enough. And remember, dear, not a word to your father."

"Yeah. Right." Enid muttered. _'He'll find out.'_

**To be continued...**

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A/N: First of all, I ask for everyone's forgiveness. It's been over six months since the last update, and frankly, that's inexcusable. Really it is. Unfortunately I've had to deal with several obstacles, among them a prolonged bout of writer's block and being a full-time university student holding down two jobs. As much as I would love to work on fanfiction more often, Real Life takes priority. However, I've begun the winter holidays and with luck the next chapter ought to be up soon - rest assured that barring death, insanity or loss of limb you'll never need wait six months for another chapter again.


	8. Pick Your Battles

**Flying High  
Chapter 8 – Pick Your Battles**  
**By: CountessMorgana**  
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**The daughter of Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl was not the first high-school student to be a super, and she certainly wasn't the first teenager to have a crush on a boy. Before Violet Parr and Tony Rydinger, before the ban on supers, before the Glory Days ended, there was Stratogale and Macroburst. And their story isn't quite as typical as one would expect.**

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_You hold the answers deep within your own mind.  
Consciously, you've forgotten it.  
That's the way the human mind works.  
_

_Whenever something is too unpleasant, too shameful for us  
to entertain, we reject it.  
We erase it from our memories.  
But the imprint is always there._

**Evanescence, "Understanding"**

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There were two unspoken rules that the NSA's main regional offices followed regarding company social gatherings, implemented during the war years when rationing and war bonds were a fact of life, and most of their resources were dedicated to the fighting overseas. Besides, the numbers of those in the NSA who hadn't gotten posted out there were too few to warrant a full-sized shindig in the nation's capital anyway.

Seeing as how most villains logically went for the nation's largest cities, the NSA found itself with field offices up and down both coasts with the biggest concentrations in the northeast and southwest. It fell on these offices to throw the Christmas parties and summer picnics independent of each other. And when the armistice was declared and the war ended, NSA higher-ups thought the smaller, more informal gatherings were better suited in the wake of the rebuilding effort (and that they preferred the potential damages that could ensue at such gatherings not be inflicted on buildings of federal/historic/diplomatic importance), so they stayed as they were, with minor changes.

As such it came to pass that barring war, national emergencies, major villain-induced catastrophes, or acts of God, the following would be observed--

One: Nobody hosts both summer picnic and Christmas party in the same calendar year.

Two: Whoever hosted the summer picnic did not do so again the following year, and likewise with the Christmas party.

Enter Agent Marietta Cresswell, a ten-year veteran of the NSA's Megalopolis offices; she had the misfortune of passing outside Regional Director Andrews' door right when he decided it was time to delegate a particularly unwanted task. Once delegated, she vowed that once she found out whoever had come up with those rules, she would have no qualms about either volunteering them the next time Edna Mode needed a human guinea pig, or stuffing them on a deserted Arctic ice floe clad only in their underwear. Whichever was ultimately more painful.

But first, the arrangements for the annual Christmas party needed to be done, and nobody could deny that once her mind was set on something it was impossible to deflect her from reaching her goals. Setting a date that didn't conflict with the majority of people's schedules had been only half the battle, but in the end Agent Cresswell was pretty darn proud of how everything had turned out. The band was booked, the party venue decked out, the drinks procured. Word was spreading that Municiberg would be hard-pressed to top this year's setup.

"Nothing should go wrong," Marietta had told Whitby the rookie, looking so fierce he'd only nodded silently, smiled, and bolted once the coast was clear.

It might have been for the better had Whitby pointed out the Fates, the irony gods, and Murphy's Law as all three had consecutively crossed his mind. But doing so, while positive in other ways, did not bode well for Whitby's continued state of good health. And considering Agent Cresswell's reputation and longevity in the service, well, God help anyone who might disagree.

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The venue was none other than the Hellebore Ballroom, located atop the Megalopolis Ritz-Carlton, a five-star facility with great views of the city skyline and very much in demand by high society. (That Cresswell had beaten out the rich and snobbish during the busy pre-Christmas season was deemed a darn miracle.) Tables were set around three sides of the expansive dance floor. Against the north wall was a dais and several chairs that seated the members of the USAF's Band of New England, who were based out of Bedford AFB six miles out. No one was quite sure how she'd managed to book them, let alone get them security clearance, but this wasn't the night to question the details. The representative from Municiberg tasked with the particulars for next year's party was overheard cursing Cresswell's accomplishment, and Agent Whitby made sure Cresswell caught wind of it.

By 7:30 pm dinner was finished and nearly everyone was either over by the balcony doors admiring the view or clustered around one of the dessert tables. Of the Phantasmics who attended (Everseer was almost always guaranteed to politely decline), Psycwave was in her element, coyly chatting to Mr. Incredible; both of them were oblivious to Elastigirl's barely hidden irritation. Plasmabolt had been roped into a conversation with Agent Pollard and Mrs. Pollard, the latter smiling and glowing with that faint aura only expecting mothers seemed to possess. A handful of couples took the opportunity to take to the dance floor, and practically every other second someone raised a hand to flag down one of the servers with the drink trays. Harried though they were, the servers were the Hellebore's best trained people and retained their perceptiveness on whom not to serve – for example, the red-faced fellow by the name of Hypershock had long since gone past his limits, placing him on the cut-off list; that pretty young agent's wife in the far corner, who was on closer inspection rather pregnant and wouldn't want or need alcohol; and at least two of the four masked attendees by Table No. 9 were more likely than underage, so keep an eye out when anyone from there placed an order.

The servers' instincts regarding Table No. 9 were spot-on; three males and one female were occupying its chairs and Macroburst was amongst them.

Macroburst was an anomaly in the NSA's superhero ranks. Aside from currently being one of their youngest supers, he was also one of their veterans, having been in the capes and tights game for four years – impressive, especially after one considered the turnover rate. Newer supers were almost always older than he, invariably surprised that a 'shrimp' had lasted as long as he had.

Two chairs over was Splashdown, one of the supers who hadn't really gotten the fact that Macroburst had plenty of field experience despite his age. Being placed on assignment with the Phantasmics changed that, and Macroburst figured that anyone who could send the villainess Ceto swimming for her life by siccing a pack of oceanic whitetip sharks on her was all right. There was a mutual respect between the two supers, which was more than could be said for others.

On Splashdown's right sat a fairly new addition to the NSA ranks – Tradewind, a dark-haired fellow with intelligent eyes who'd at first been understandably nervous to be in the presence of such known heroes like Gamma Jack and Dynaguy. As the night wore on he started to relax and was now explaining to the others at the table his powers, which had been designated as 'elemental' by the administrative staff.

"I'd have preferred a different label for it myself," he said, "since they aren't elements in the modern scientific sense. I suppose if one looks at it from a more classical viewpoint it would be easier to understand, but it's still caused some confusion."

This prompted a frown from the only female super at the table. When Splashdown had arrived that evening he'd turned heads, more from the woman who had accompanied him than anything else. Stormicide, as she was introduced, was tall and statuesque and insisted, as did Splashdown, that they were only attending the party 'as friends'. Macroburst couldn't resist pointing out the track records of previous super couples who'd been under that banner: Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl were more likely about to head to the altar any day now, whilst Frozone and Blazestone were continuously in an on-again, off-again spitfire of a relationship. At the implication, Tradewind had sniggered, Stormicide reddened and waved him off, and Splashdown amicably told Macroburst to sit down and clam up if he knew what was good for him.

"What exactly can you do?" Splashdown asked.

Tradewind grimaced. "It's limited, but I can control fire, water, earth and wind currents to a degree—"

"None of those things are elements!" Stormicide burst out. Sitting between Macroburst and Splashdown, she gestured with both hands as she went on. "Fire is energy, water is a compound, and air and earth are both mixtures! If you want something to be truly elemental, it has to deal with hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, need I go on? No offense," she added to Tradewind, "it's not your fault the categorizing system needs an update."

"And none taken. Got to hand it to you, someone paid attention in science class," Tradewind noted. "With your powers it'd help to be well-versed in chemistry."

"I major in chemistry," she said proudly. At Splashdown's pointed expression, she bristled. "What? There's literally scores of women's post-secondary educational institutions in this region – do you honestly think they could track me down like that?"

"Not without wasting man hours and resources best allocated elsewhere. Speaking of work, nice job you did on the Riverview school fire," Macroburst said, smiling. Best be neutral, he'd heard the jokes around HQ. If there was one thing he tried not to do, it was put his foot in his mouth – that was best left with the Simon Paladinos and Nathan Blakeneys (even though the latter could usually charm his way out of almost any sticky situation, and Mackenzie often wondered if that sort of thing ran in his family).

Splashdown chucked. "Yeah, proves you're of a higher calibre than the average airhead."

"Oh?" Stormicide's gaze turned flinty. "Better an airhead than a sea monkey."

This elicited several reactions – Macroburst choked on his ginger beer, Tradewind stared at Stormicide with nothing short of admiration, while the recipient of her epithet looked for all the world like a gaping fish, completely at a loss for words (human or otherwise).

But perhaps the reaction with the greatest consequences came from a tipsy, just passing Agent Whitby. Champagne glass in hand, he froze on hearing Stormicide, and howled with laughter. "'Sea monkey'? That's great! Brilliant! I gotta tell the guys – hey, hey Morty, you gotta hear this—" and he ran off to spread word of Splashdown's newly minted nickname.

Said hero seemed to have snapped out of his horror and regained his ability of speech. "Do you have any idea what you've just done?" he exclaimed.

Stormicide shrugged and even managed to look nonchalant. "Even if anyone remembers it'll die down in a month or so." When the expression on her date's face did not change, she blinked. "What, isn't that right?"

Macroburst cleared his throat. "Actually, it's more likely that will end up being used in reference to him by NSA personnel, and for all intents and purposes will serve as his unofficial name from hereon out."

"Like call signs?" Tradewind asked in genuine interest, wilting slightly at the glare Splashdown sent him.

Stormicide looked at Splashdown. "Well, it could've been worse... Sea Monkey."

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Plasmabolt made it a personal policy not to get involved in the private matters of the other supers, which she stuck rigidly to as it meant she had an easier time of putting it all behind her and shutting the door when she returned to civilian life. Sometimes her self-restraint was tested, especially when she spotted Elastigirl's angry expression a mile away, even more so when she saw the cause of it.

Everybody knew Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl were together. As Rick Dicker put in, 'a body could be deaf, dumb, and blind, and still know about them'. However, Plasmabolt was well aware that Psycwave and Elastigirl had never really gotten along, what with the Elastigirl's staunch openly feminist stance and Psycwave's similar yet conservative views on the subject. Though the two women were fair equals in intelligence, their backgrounds, upbringings, beliefs, and lifestyles meant they would clash, which they did often. It got worse after Mr. Incredible entered the picture and it became known he and Elastigirl were serious. Rose Cameron, who had never been anything less than an incorrigible flirt to begin with, decided to up the ante.

When one woman strikes at the heart of another she seldom misses; Psycwave had confided to Plasmabolt that her actions were a means of irritating her rival, and nothing more, but Elastigirl wasn't bound to see it that way.

"... I've always been partial to 'Kathryn' myself, but what do you think?" a woman's voice asked. "Plasmabolt? Would you look at that, Dan, she's a million miles away!"

"Oh, I'm sorry Dee. Could you repeat that, please?" Plasmabolt reluctantly turned back to the conversation at hand.

"Well, we've already gotten the nursery done up, and bought the crib, the clothes, the highchair, and a pram, so really, all that's left to do is decide on names." said Daniel Pollard's wife, whom most everyone called Didi. The former Diane Mallory had been a top NSA translator before her marriage and allowed to retain her security clearance as a consultant, making her one of the few agents' wives who were permitted to know exactly what their husbands did at work.

"Doesn't help we have no idea whether it's going to be a boy or a girl," Dan Pollard explained with a smile. "One day she's sure it's a girl and the next it's 'I don't know if he's going to like his baby food'."

"It might be both, if you end up having twins," Plasmabolt suggested.

"Let's hope not!" Dan exclaimed. "Though it'd certainly make our parents happy, more grandchildren to spoil rotten."

"Ha! Our mothers aren't the ones with the bump! And I've heard all the horror stories about birthing pains," Didi groused. "Once will be quite enough, thank you."

Plasmabolt raised an eyebrow. "But what if he – or she – needs a sibling?"

"Hmmm. I suppose we could always have another one in a couple of years..." said Dan thoughtfully.

Didi looked horrified. "Aren't you getting a little too ahead of yourself, sweetie? We haven't even gotten this one out yet!"

"Better listen to your wife, Dan, she knows better than you do," Harry Grier said jovially, approaching their group.

"Thank you, Harry," said Didi as she bestowed a beatific smile on her husband.

Diane's spouse glared at his colleague. "Yeah, thanks a bunch, Grier, you traitor."

Harry raised his hands. "Now, now, no need for name-calling. And while we're talking about names, I think 'Henry' would be an excellent choice for a boy."

Dan Pollard smirked. "Harry, old buddy old pal, that's a good suggestion. And I hereby exercise my right as dad by saying... not a chance."

"Dang it," Harry grumbled.

"Nice try, though," Plasmabolt consoled him.

The band wrapped up the song, a jazzy tune with a strong rhythm and fast tempo, and segued into another tune with a much more moderate pace. The Pollards excused themselves, Dan saying he owed Didi a dance, leaving Plasmabolt, Harry and an awkward silence behind them.

It didn't last long. "Don't suppose you heard about Splashdown yet?" Harry asked Plasmabolt.

"I haven't. Something the matter?" came her reply. She'd gone back to monitoring Elastigirl and Psycwave in the brief interim – no change, which was a relief.

"Nothing life-threatening. He called Stormicide something uncomplimentary, not sure exactly what, and according to Whitby the rookie she returned the favor. Seems everyone's going to be using 'Sea Monkey' around him from now on."

That got Plasmabolt's full and undivided attention. "I thought we weren't using those anymore. The codenames are more than enough to go by, why throw on additional – and might I say potentially humiliating – nicknames on top of them?"

A slow grin stole over Harry's face. "Oh no. You're still not sore over the whole 'Lady Lightbug' thing Agent Dessler started, are you?"

"I maintain the opinion that Steven Dessler was a tactless idiot. And I'm just thankful people stopped using it after a month or so." Which had possibly been the longest month of her NSA career, not that she would mention it now.

Harry contemplated his drink. "Yeah, didn't work out. People didn't really like it."

Plasmabolt perked up at that. "Because it was unsuitable and inappropriate?"

"Er, no. Actually, there were too many syllables. Anything longer than three usually dies out after a couple of weeks, but Dessler was persistent."

"Glad to hear it." Not really. "Although I do have a request. If you ever dig it out of the rejected pile, give it to some other super. Or better yet, let some egocentric villainess have it, because as far as I'm concerned she'll be more than welcome."

"I'll keep that in mind..." he trailed off. "Look, I have to confess. It wasn't all Steve's fault – God rest his soul. I, uh, kind of kept it going too, and egged him on. Thought it was cool – which it obviously wasn't, and it wasn't fair to you because you didn't like it, and I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry. For being a goof."

He was rambling. More so than usual, that is. "Where exactly are you going with this, Harry?"

He shrugged. "Don't know, though I was kind of hoping you'd let me make it up to you. Maybe over lunch."

Plasmabolt stared at him. "Agent Grier, did you ask me out on a date?"

Harry winced. "Yes, yes I suppose I did."

"It's against NSA policy."

"I know."

"I don't mix up super work and my civilian life."

"I know that too."

She paused a moment, staring into her wine glass. "You're a nice guy Harry, I'm sure of it. But for all you know I'm already married."

Grier very visibly flinched. "Hadn't thought of that. Look, I – God, this is awkward – I thought, maybe I stood a chance. But you're right. Our working relationship takes priority and shouldn't be jeopardised. I'm sorry – again."

He looked over at Sylvia to see how she was taking his words. Mildly irked to find her attention elsewhere, his irritation eased when he followed her gaze to Elastigirl's familiar red mane disappearing down the corridor to the restrooms. "Um, something going on that I should be concerned about, or should I mind my own business since it'll go over my head?"

"The latter, I should think." Plasmabolt said, amused. "Could you hold onto this for me?"

"Well, sure." Harry took her wine glass. "But it looks like Psycwave's got whatever it is in hand."

Plasmabolt froze. "Psycwave?"

"Er, yeah, she just went in after Elastigirl."

"Right," said Plasmabolt, looking distracted. "Sorry Harry, I need to go."

She took a few steps away, then turned back. "By the way, I'm not married."

Harry grinned and raised his glass to her. "Figured you weren't."

He was still grinning when the Pollards returned from the dance floor nary a minute later.

"Strike out?" asked Dan.

"Not so badly, wasn't as terrible as I thought it – No wait, actually, it was. And for the record, I am never taking advice from either of you ever again."

He'd half-expected it, but it was still galling when both Dan and Didi burst out laughing at his expense.

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The common perception of most people is to associate redheads with volatile tempers. Helen Truax prided herself on her self-control and self-restraint, both of which had served her well in the field and earned her rare commendations from the upper echelons of the NSA.

Of course, her composure was tested – mostly when villains were trying to blow up or take over the world, employing all tactics from death ray lasers to burrowing to the Earth's core in order to trigger the simultaneous eruption of every active volcano on the planet. There was even one scheme to melt the polar ice caps and submerge practically all the world's major cities in the deluge.

And then there were her fellow supers. She was on amiable terms with nearly all, casual acquaintances for the most part. Having dealt with her share of global threats and crises meant encountering the Phantasmics frequently, and Elastigirl had long ago set her opinions of them. Plasmabolt was good-natured and no-nonsense; Macroburst laid-back and unusually mature. She had nothing but respect for Everseer, but Elastigirl couldn't say the same about the Englishman's second-in-command.

Elastigirl _loathed_ Psycwave, and she was pretty damned sure the feeling was mutual. The blonde telepath was practically the embodiment of everything Helen couldn't stand: superficial, self-serving, promiscuous, purposely stupid to attract men, catty, the list went on. Deep down, Helen knew some of her ill will could perhaps be attributed to jealousy; Psycwave was by no means ugly, and Helen knew she was very intelligent – she had heard that the other woman had fast-tracked her way to a Ph.D in something (Helen, who was enrolled in a community college program, had some very derogatory thoughts on just how Psycwave had managed to obtain the degree upon hearing that).

_'God knows what or who she did to get it, that shallow hussy,'_ Helen thought, turning off the sink taps. She angrily continued in that vein by mentally calling Psycwave every last insult she knew, and invented a few by the time she stepped out of the restroom proper into the powder room.

"You know, Elastigirl, if you really want to go all out with your negative assessment of my character, don't do it when I'm right here."

For a moment all Helen could do was gape. Psycwave, sitting in one of the powder room chairs, gave a sardonic smile and waved. "Telepathy, remember?" she asked, tapping her temple with a gloved hand. "Or maybe not. You were too busy defaming me."

Elastigirl felt ill. "You heard me?"

"Sweetheart, with the way you were carrying on, I wouldn't be surprised if folks over at the ISC heard you." Psycwave sneered. "That's the British counterpart to the NSA, and they're based in London, by the way."

"I know what and where the ISC is!" Elastigirl hissed.

"Oh, very good, she knows her geography!" Psycwave exclaimed. "So tell me this, Elastigirl, how is it, that for all your exceptional talents, advanced vocabulary, and proudly-remembered exploits, you still react to another woman talking to your future husband with ridiculous insults and blatantly unfounded jealousy?"

"Stop reading my mind."

"I don't have to. Basic psychology – your body language is giving everything away."

Helen tensed.

"Let me get one fact clear here, Elastigirl. If there's one thing I'm not, and never will be, it's a homewrecker. Adultery is messy enough, and I make damned sure I don't get involved in that. I respect the sanctity of marriage, so unless there's a wedding band on his finger and I've scanned his mind to make sure, he's fair game." Psycwave smirked. "Now tell me something. Do you love him?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then let go of your damned insecurities and _tell him that_. Men are thick, they don't get subtlety, so don't bother to try." She tilted her chin down and smirked some more. "Also, I find it completely droll that you're regarding me as the sole thing that might ruin your relationship with him; it could never happen because of your rigidity, or your countenance, or your hyper-reactive jealousy, it's _me_. Whatever could happen down the road, it'll never be your fault, it'll always be _me._ You'll be saying to yourself,'Oh, that Psycwave, chatting with my darling husband; that's what ruined our marriage!' What a masterful deflection of responsibility!"

Through this, Elastigirl said not a word. Her eyes were wide and her expression set, her palms whitening as she dug her nails into them to maintain her composure. _How dare she? How _dare _she?_

"Oh, and Elastigirl?" The voice was honey-sweet, but Psycwave's countenance was diamond-hard. "If you ever insult me like that again, I promise you that electroshock therapy will be a piece of cake compared to what I'm capable of doing."

And on that note, she left.

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Plasmabolt stood six inches away from the ladies' room door, debating whether or not it would be prudent to enter. All she could hear were muffled voices, but they didn't sound hostile. Then again, Psycwave was a trained and certified psychologist, so she wouldn't need to shout and rave to get her point across. And even if Elastigirl did lose her cool (and Sylvia wouldn't fault her if she did) wouldn't Psycwave be able to subdue her with nary a thought before it came to blows?

But what if Psycwave didn't or couldn't in time? The fracas would undoubtedly not be confined to the powder room. Agent Cresswell had worked so hard to make this a night to remember; and now it was bound to be remembered for all the wrong reasons.

"Plasma, what's the holdup?"

Speak of the devil. Plasmabolt grimaced and turned to face Marietta, who'd traded in her usual tweed outfit for a handsome taffeta gown.

"It's started," was all she said, and Cresswell's face went pale before she pressed a gloved hand to her forehead and groaned. Plasmabolt nodded silently, and indicated the door.

"And it was going so well... Should I get the medical teams on standby?" Marietta asked.

Plasmabolt thought it over. Then she shook her head. "Let's wait it out, see if they're standing by the end." Sylvia had worked with both supers, knew their capabilities, and knew she didn't want to become a casualty by stepping into the crossfire.

Meanwhile Cresswell stared at the super. "Plasmabolt, you're in a better position than anyone to know that this – this feud or whatever it is – has been building up for well over a year!" Her face was flushed and Plasmabolt was betting that it wasn't from the wine rippling around the glass in Cresswell's shaking grip. "I'm more concerned about the structural integrity of this building and its occupants, and that's assuming either survives the night once they've had it out!"

It was at that moment the ladies room door swung towards them (both women in the hall jumped back to avoid getting hit) and Psycwave stepped out. As always, she was perfectly immaculate from her hair to her evening dress to her makeup to the smile on her lips that was anything but innocent.

"Taking it outside, Rose?" Plasmabolt asked snidely.

Containing her smugness, Psycwave blinked and a small frown creased her brows. "Of course not. It's over."

"What. Did. You. Do." Plasmabolt bit out, as Agent Cresswell sighed in relief.

Psycwave gave a bland shrug. "We had a few words, I gave some advice. That's all. First round goes to me, although I must admit, it _was_ rather one-sided."

The wine glass slipped from Agent Cresswell's hand as her grip slacked. "_'First round'_?" she echoed.

Catching the glass with her telekinesis, Psycwave made it float to her. "Of course. I won the battle, but the war's not over yet." Surveying the full wineglass, Psycwave raised her eyebrows in a silent question to Agent Cresswell, who looked utterly out of sorts. Getting no verbal answer, Psycwave shrugged, plucked the glass out of the air, and drained it in one. Empty glass swinging from her hand, she headed back down to the party, the triumphant victor.

Plasmabolt broke the silence left in Psycwave's wake. "We're all doomed, aren't we?"

Still mute, Cresswell only nodded in reply.

**To be continued...**

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A/N: All right, so it's been longer than six months. My sincerest apologies; real life unfortunately has a way of impeding story progress. All I can say is thank God for summer holidays. Many thanks go out to Laura (the lovely Spindle Berry), who stuck with me and helped the chapter along; to Impressed, who reviewed the second chapter with the hope of seeing a cameo from either Bob or Helen; and to Inspector Brown, who has reviewed every last chapter since day one and graciously gave me his permission to use the rant from his author's bio (reproduced here as part of Stormicide's dialogue).   



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